


And This Is Your Opinion Of Me?

by Tulina



Category: Pride and Prejudice
Genre: Alternate Universe - College, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Genderswap, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2010-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tulina/pseuds/Tulina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabel and David meet in nowadays Barcelona, and their first impression of each other isn't that great. At all. Modern P&P, book-based -with some twists. By twists I mean GENDER SWAP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story isn't paused! I'm terribly slow to update (I have been for several months now), but these characters live in my brain and Isabel's stilettos are starting to be painful. So I'll finish! Please be patient. :)

 

_Veles e vents han mos desigs complir,  
faent camins dubtosos per la mar._

'Sails and winds will attain my wishes,  
trailing uncertain paths in the sea.'

Ausiàs March. _Veles e vents_

_   
_

"I met the most wonderful guy today," Julia said, just upon entering my room. Then she jumped on me, seeing I was reading on my bed, and squeezed between me and the wall with an expectant look about her.

I had to close the book. She is my sister, after all. And I can't read all squished up. I've tried it many times in the subway and it just doesn't work.

No, OK, I admit, I also really wanted to hear about this 'wonderful guy'. I set my copy of _Don Quixote_ aside and made room for her. "Go ahead, tell me."

"It was before Romanesque Art. He looked lost, and foreign, and asked me if we were in Romanesque… He's an Erasmus, from Italy. But he's actually American. And…" She actually paused, I guess to make it interesting, before adding: "speaks perfect Spanish. With the cutest accent."

"Sounds quite the prince charming," I said, raising my eyebrows. Julia isn't any good at telling stories but you could see in her face all the exciting things she wasn't saying. Like, he was sooo hot. Such a nice smile. Things like that.

"Don't laugh!" She swatted me playfully and went on, in a sweet dreamy way "He looked very… gentle".

Now, really, I don't know what's wrong with Julia. You know the sexy, dangerous, dark man all girls have been programmed to sigh for? Well, not my sis. I mean, she'd pick Luke Skywalker over Han Solo. Frodo over Aragorn. And Clark Kent over Superman.

So, to all the boys out there trying to be tough but failing miserably: It's OK. She can't be the only one.

"You mean he looked like a lost puppy." I was laughing at her, but it's my job, so she took no offence and did not hit me again. She didn't have room enough, anyway.

"Kind of, yes. He has blue eyes." Seeing I said nothing, she followed a thread of my starry bedcover with the tip of one nail and said, randomly "He likes dogs. His name is Charlie."

Alright. Now, I'll allow it doesn't happen every other day, but my sister telling me she met this incredible person might be… a weekly ocurrence. She'll see me and exclaim, as if she had been refraining herself and waiting all day to tell me: 'I saw the prettiest toddler today!', or 'Spoke with an incredibly wise old man down in the bakery!' It's just too easy to impress her. But some random exchange student making her incoherent?

"Did he flirt with you or something?" I said, all suspiciously. But I was smiling. She looked happy, and I get a fuzzy warm feeling out of Happy Julia. Also, I knew she was about to ask a favour.

"Hm. He said he just arrived two weeks ago. And I told him about the outing tomorrow –the one with Carla and her friends? Only Carla just told me she doesn't feel very well, and… I don't know. I'll feel like I'm intruding and I don't know Charlie that much, not to mention his friends…"

"You are asking me to come along."

"He lives with his sister and his best friend, you know, and they are very pretty! He said they'd come, and if you don't like them you can talk with anyone else, you're good at talking to people!" She kind of hugged me then, actually stabbing me with her elbow, but it didn't matter much. Anyway, we both knew I didn't have any plans.

I had had some offers, because February exams in the UAB (my university) had just finished and everyone is expected to drink and be merry in times such as these. I don't usually do much on Fridays, though, since I always manage to have lessons in the morning and then drama rehearsal. I'm in an amateur company with the same people who were in the Drama club with me in highschool. Carla is in it, too. We do really intensive rehearsals each Friday and then go out together and have dinner at midnight.

Except, well. I just know Julia would do it for me.

"What time then?" I surrendered as expected. It is true, after all. I am good with people. I am comfortable with people I don't know -to an extent Julia finds inhuman. You can put me in a lift with anyone (a random repairman, weird ancient neighbours, a shy twelve-year old) and I'll be alright. I never run out of conversation.

"Ten o'clock in front of the Zurich café. We'll hang out in our Irish pub."

_Our Irish pub_ means 'the Irish pub we usually go to'. It means she actually cares for it (sticky tables, cigarrete smoke, loud music and all). She sometimes makes it sound as if we own it, waitresses and all. It also happens with the cinema around the corner and, don't ask me why, _our_ grocery and _our_ chinese restaurant (we've eaten in twice).

"Let's tell the guys too, then. God knows Mario really needs to go out." I got up, straightened my t-shirt, and looked back at Julia, who had stretched and now basked in the glory of having my whole bed to herself.

"So do you. You know, David, you are the best of brothers."

"I know."

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz **

**To: Jorge Díaz **

**Subject: You'll love this…**

Hey J!

I shall come and visit soon -this is terribly boring. I mastered moving around both campus and city in just two weeks. There are maps, it's NOT that hard. But I guess I'll still have entertaining stories about being stranded/lost/late. C keeps getting lost and texting me to come and help him find his classes. It would be highly annoying, were he anyone else, but since he IS Charlie and he is my friend, it's actually endearing. Not to mention I have great fun at his expense.

Speaking of Charlie. If he did write to you yesterday you'll already know. If not, stay seated: he is head over heels in love AGAIN. As always, love at first sight, very pretty girl, makes fool of himself when speaking to her. I think she is too gentle to laugh at him in his face. OR she feels sorry since we are new in the city and is being friendly. OR she really hasn't noticed and is just being friendly. Anyway, I give him two weeks.

He met her at some History of Art class and got invited to tag along yesterday night. You should have seen him, he was totally overexcited by the time he arrived home and told us. So Caroline helped him choose what to wear and I said I would go too. I mean, you know I don't like making friends, but I'll be here for four months at least and I better make a couple of them. And I thought maybe they were interesting...

They weren't. You know how I hate loud people. Well, they were loud, boisterous, and spoke of stupid things. And about sex, a lot. One of them explained her whole sexual life to me before I was rescued by Caroline. We retreated to a corner and then I had to listen to her criticise every item of clothing in the room. I pleaded headache in the end and dragged Charlie away.

Still. Julia (C's new love) was alright; very sweet, somewhat shy. Caroline liked her and says she hasn't realised C couldn't take his eyes off her. But I think her brother knows, so she can't be oblivious for long.

And now you can laugh at me and at my friends-making:

Caro was getting on my nerves, so I went to the (dirty) restroom. It was a small room with a sink, a mirror and two stalls, one for guys and one for ladies. I put on lipstick, for want of something interesting to do. And in comes Charlie, all flushed and happy, and goes:

C: Hey Izzy! Having fun? I: No. And they're loud. C: Aww. They are just... very out-going. And friendly. I'm sure there's a couple guys that would be too happy to entertain you. Buy you drinks. Talk about poetry or something. Want me to introduce you to the blond guy? Or Julia's brother. He's cool. He- I: Looks nerdy. And should have his hair cut. C: Oh. I thought you'd like him. I: No way. There's no-one out there that might interest me for even five minutes. Except Julia, I guess. Go and talk to her, I'll be fine with...

And then, the men stall door opened and out came Julia's brother. As we stared through the mirror, he washed his hands, made a show of pushing his hair away from his eyes and smiled at Charlie.

We had been speaking in English, not Spanish, but I had the feeling he had understood every word. And then, after the smile, he just turned around and left us there. Didn't look at me. Shame. I was so red, he would have had a kick out of it.

Done laughing? Well, I am not ashamed anymore. I was just saying what I thought. I meant no offence, even if he IS offended. I really don't think he would interest me. I just hope he still likes C, though, and won't speak badly of him to his sister. I liked that she didn't say anything stupid when Caro spoke to her.

I'm reconsidering. I give Charlie one week, poor lad.

And this is all. I'll check the flights and come by before easter, what do you think?

A big hug,

Your fav sis Isabel.

*******

"So how did it go!" Carla said first, shutting her NDS down without saving. That is how excited she was, she even forgot about Resetti in Animal Crossing.

Julia and I entered her room and sat down by her feet. Julia was still all happy from the night before. And I was still not very happy. I mean, I had thought she was hot. It hurts all the more to be looked down by a total stranger you wanted to meet.

"How are you?" I asked first, pinching her calf.

"Threw up at five in the morning and your mom made a fuss. Sooo, OK, the bathroom was a mess, and I woke her up, but I hadn't done it un purpose. Anyway, she seems to feel bad about it now and keeps fretting about me. And bringing me soup."

This might be getting a bit confusing for you. Let me explain:

Julia and I live at home while studying, which unfortunately is what everyone does in Spain (unless you live in a small town or your local university doesn't have a Physics department, etc). There are nice exchange programs, though, so you can go somewhere else for a semester or a year. Which is what Charlie was doing, an Erasmus exchange. My bestfriend Xavi Jardiner too, he was currently in Dublin. The idea is to send you to another country in the UE. It's like this big adventure for most people. And I personally really enjoy having Polish and French ladies in my lessons. Each semester my friends and I make a poll on-

Sorry. We live at home, OK, only my mom owns both flats in the same floor. Apparently, when she married my dad, my grandpa just presented them with the appartment next door, so they could live close by. No wonder their marriage flunked and my dad lives now in Granada (868 km away). He has remarried and has another kid, too. His name's Antonio. Drools a lot, but he's such a smart toddler. I used to-

Sorry, sorry. My grandparents died four years ago, so my mom converted their flat to rent it to students. And then realised she could ask me to live with the guys so I could keep an eye on them and she could rent my big room to a couple of girls. I thought it was a great idea at the time, but now I live with both roomates and a mom. It's not the best arrangement in the world, really. There's Mario, a metalhead who won't wash his hair/log off internet, and Cristian and Dídac. Dídac is the epithome of party-goers and never does his chores. I suspect Cristian of being in love with him, as he always does whatever Dídac wants (chores included).

Mom and Julia live with Carla and, til recently, a girl from Majorca who studied Journalism. She had just graduated and left. Just on time, since we had started not getting along so well after a failed attempt at dating. Mainly, though, we missed her. We are one big not-so happy family, more or less, since my mom feels free both to yell and fret about all of us. Specially Carla. She can get really irritating, so Julia and I looked accordingly compassionate. Julia patted her knee.

"The soup is nice, at least," she said.

"Yes. But tell me about the Erasmus. Juicy bits included."

Julia colored and was about to protest, so I quipped in: "He's really into her, I think. Spoke with her for an hour at the very least."

Before Julia could protest, Carla propped herself up and went "What's he like?"

"Very nice," said Julia.

"A bit taller than me, light brown hair, blue eyes, eager to please. That girl who only talks about sex said he looked, and I quote, 'yummy enough to spread on toast'."

Julia giggled at that. "We did talk, but he was very nice with everyone. You spoke with him too, David."

"He stammered when talking to her. I swear he just said whatever crossed his mind first," I confided. Carla was smiling her feline smile, and Julia just went on as if I hadn't said a thing.

"His sister was very nice, too. And that shy girl. I told you they were pretty, David. You should have talked to them."

It must have shown in my face, because their expressions changed to mild curiosity and they just stopped talking. They know I can't resist that kind of silence, all "We know you know something so why don't you just spill". So I told them, if only to hear someone say I do not look nerdy at all.

"The fashionable blonde isn't my type. And his friend from Madrid was… OK, she was pretty, but –"

"No buts. She was tall and had perfect skin and incredibly shiny straight hair down to her waist –" said Julia, all admiringly.

"She wasn't tall. She just seemed tall because she looked down on everyone" I cut. It was part of her hotness in the beginning, in a very _femme fatale_ fashion. The chestnut shine of her hair and the intimidating way she looked at you, as if daring you to prove your manly worth before you spoke to her. "And she refused to be introduced to me on the grouds that I looked nerdy."

This got their attention. And sure enough, by the time I had finished, they were suitably outraged on my behalf.

"You do NOT look nerdy," exclaimed Julia. Aaah, thank you.

"Yo do seem too smart for your own good sometimes," conceded Carla. "But I love your hair."

"Oh Carla, your friends aren't loud at all," said Julia, all worriedly. True, Carla was also an injured party. But she quickly shrugged it off, apparently pleased at the distraction I had offered. She's got the sharpest tongue.

"Nah, they are, but who is she to say so? They aren't _her_ friends. Not one of them would want to be friends with such a… bitter bitch anyway."

"Bitter bitch. It has a nice ring." I'm very appreciative of Carla's insults. She has a way of putting in two blunt words what I would explain in a whole paragraph. "She didn't make any friends, don't worry."

"Must have been very bored all evening," said Julia. She always wants to see the best in everyone. It's lovely, but not a great help when you feel like playing the offended party.

"Most deservedly" scoffed Carla.

I had to reconsider the facts, though, since she did look bored:

"Had she said she didn't fit in, it would be alright. I'm sure she's all that and can find better people to hang out with. Quiet people. Whatever. I could forgive her pride, had she not wounded mine."

"Sweet," Carla said, pinching my cheek. "I have already decided I don't like her, long hair or not."

We didn't need to ask Julia. She was clearly upset at a stranger's dissing of me, but gaining her disapproval is really hard. She probably thought that Charlie's friend, 'that shy girl', had had a bad day, was PMSing or had thought I was someone else. Hah.

Carla and I were more of the Bitter Bitch persuasion.

"So. What did you and Dreamboy talk about?" asked Carla, and that was my queue to go away and avoid hering my sister talk about cute butts and such. Or walk into my mother and have her tell me about Carla being ill last night with all the gory details.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz **

**To: Jorge Díaz **

**Subject: re: re: You'll love this…**

I'm glad you find my life so amusing. It actually got worse: I discovered yesterday Julia's brother is in my Spanish Renaissance Poetry class. The one I had to skip last week because I was queuing to get my student ID.

His name is David Benet. And he's the teacher's pet. They keep discussing things between them as if no-one else could make a sensible remark. Which of course they can't, as far as I've seen.

Well, I can. But I hate speaking up. So I didn't. But I'm going to be top of the class anyway, David Benet or not.

He did say interesting things in class, in fact, which made things less annoying. Also, he acted as if he hadn't seen me, but only after looking at me kind of surprised and then staring at my boots. I think they are pretty boots. This is also less annoying than him acting offended.

You asked for a Julia description. Here it goes: tall, slender, angelic face, blondish wavy hair (not dyed I think), big hazel eyes, easy smile. Pretty. Caro is all envious of her legs, she says they are very long. They're not. Caro is short-legged, that is all.

Her brother: indisputably so, since they share smile, somewhat thick eyebrows and straight nose. Tallish, wavy dark hair badly in need of a cut, brown eyes. Caro says he's kind of cute. I say he's kind of nerdy.

From the constant Caro references you may have deduced: she won't stop talking. She is amusing, especially when she doesn't mean to be, but I find myself avoiding our place and complaining about sore feet so she won't ask me to go shopping with her. I hope she will soon grow bored and leave for Paris, a spa or a ski trip.

I have to go. Promised C I'd go to the Picasso museum with him. Then we'll hit a tapas bar. He is incredibly fond of deep-fried squid. Also, he didn't get further than "hi" with Julia today and wants to discuss a plan to have breakfast with her on Thursday.

Also, he really wants to go out again this weekend. With her. I'm being included as a very necessary third wheel, and so is Caro. We told him we are not joining her friend's friends again, and so we have to think of something else to do, hopefully with her alone. He says sight-seeing. Caro says shopping. I'd rather go to the cinema or something like that.

I wish he would just ask her out American-style, as in a date, but he feels a Spanish approach might be best. I have to agree. So he's not showing his cards just yet (even if his intentions must be clear to her not-stupid brother) and we'll just, um, be friends for now. I hope this will give him a chance to win her over. At least she doesn't actually seem the sort of girl who'd use him.

Okay, NOW I have to go. Charlie says he hopes you are well "but please Izzy let's go."

_Un abrazo muy fuerte!_ OOOOO

Isabel

PS. I did call him! Only we don't talk much, and so our phone conversations have the shortest life span. If he asks, tell him I'm doing fine. Scold him if he's smoking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta VickyVicarious, who also helped choose a pretty title for the fic. &lt;3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say the story isn't mine, characters are copied too… but all the places, songs, videos, soccer teams and wikipedia entries mentioned do exist. I have kind of crammed P&amp;P into my daily life –after twisting it shamelessly, of course.
> 
> Thanks again to VickyVicarious for this beta-job!

_mas solamente aquella  
fuerza de tu beldad seria cantada  
y alguna vez con ella  
también seria notada  
el aspereza de que estás armada._

but merely the  
force of your beauty would be sung  
and at times with it  
would also be remarked  
the harshness with which you are armed.

Garcilaso de la Vega, _Ode ad florem Gnidi_

 

_   
_

"No kidding," Carla said, carefully sipping her herbal tea. "She said 'We don't have that size, didn't even know it existed.' As if no-one could have possibly thought about people like me when designing clothes."

"Skinny skank," I chorused. Only it was a sad, one-person chorus, because Xavi Jardiner, our other best friend, used to do the skinny skank chorus with me. Only he met this Irish Erasmus girl and he is now doing his own Erasmus in Dublin, with her. We were happy to see him happy, but it wasn't the same without him.

I'd like to note that, while Carla can't be said to be skinny (of which my mom loves to remind her), she is not actually overweight. I have in fact liked more curvy girls. She has liked them, too. It's only designers and shop clerks she has to fight against. And homophobes, but that's another story.

So we were there, bonding in the depths of despair thanks to Xavi not being there, when she went: "Is that Dreamboy talking to your sister?"

I turned around in my chair. The cafeteria is rather big and long, seeing as the student population spends more time in there than attending their lessons. It's usually full, noisy and smells strongly of cigarrettes. There is a non-smoking policy inside the campus buildings, but our cafeteria is full of 'rebels' who won't be ordered around because they have 'rights', or so they say, and people smokes in here anyway. Especially when it's cold outside.

By 'rebels' I mean spoiled kids who speak about anarchism, and by 'rights' I mean they think they can do whatever they wish, and that it makes them so cool.

Yeah, OK. Through the smoke I could clearly see Julia coming in with a tall guy and a long-haired girl.

"Yeah. That's Charlie. And the other girl is Bitter Bitch."

"No kidding?"

I turned to her and went back to stirring my coffee to a drinkable temperature. "No kidding."

"She's hotttt." She still hadn't taken her eyes off them, and actually raised an arm and waved at Julia.

"Yeah, and in Renaissance Poetry too."

"I should've taken that class," she said, now looking at me with her trademark catty smirk. "It's so rare seeing you uncomfortable."

I swear beneath it all she's a very caring girl. But she hadn't finished yet.

"Just look at her boots." She was staring again, her chin on her hand, smiling slightly in welcome. "Classical bitch attire."

I had noticed the boots on Monday, before class, and I don't normally think much of what a girl is wearing. Fine, I admit I'll remember a particularly revealing or fitting outfit, but the interest would lay in what was revealed, not the clothes themselves. Still, the boots were one item to remember. It wasn't about the boots themselves (black, knee high, stiletto heels), although I did wonder how could she walk on them.

I tried walking with heels once, for a theater rehearsal--details of which I can't reveal. I can say I ended up with a sprained ankle, and my heels weren't half as unstable-looking as the heels on those boots.

It was all about how she walked in them and the noise she made when walking. It was way hotttt, as Carla would put it. Matched the glare and all.

As we smiled knowingly to each other, I heard the tell-tale clicking sounds and turned around. Sure, they were close enough that Julia could smile secretly at me and _she_ could glare at me.

"Hey man. Remember my friend Isabel from the pub?" Charlie greeted me with a clap on the back and a slight look of concern. I didn't want him to worry about me starting open warfare with Isabel, so I smiled at them.

"You could say we've met. Why don't you all sit down with us? This is my friend Carla." Julia was already sliding into the seat by my side, and Charlie sat opposite her. That left Isabel sitting next to him, as far from me as possible. I hadn't planned on excluding her from conversation, really. But soon after I asked Charlie how were they doing and did they come by train from the city, she just took a book out of her purse and ignored us all.

Yeah. Didn't even say hi. The relations between Madrid and Barcelona do need some improving, you know, and she wasn't helping. People here say they're proud in Madrid, and she seemed to have been through intense pride training for years. She was an open book, a book that begun in big bold letters and read: "I am better than this. I'll prove it by stoically ignoring all minor inconviniences, including you. Now stop reading." I know it would take me hours of mirror practice to get the hang of it.

I didn't even know if she was listening. I can usually tell, in public places and public transport especially, because I'll be talking to someone I know and the stranger sitting next to me will try to look as if he isn't eavesdropping. Until me or my buddy say something funny and they snigger, snort, bit their lips and/or cough. Carla and I play "entertain the audience" in the bus when we are bored. You should try it, too. Bring a smile to your neighbour's lips. It's for the public good!

We weren't playing "entertain Isabel", though. I just thought she was really intent in her book and after a while I stopped paying her any attention at all. Until Cristian and Dídac showed up, having skipped all their classes. After highfiving everyone -it's a weird thing they do, don't ask me - they sat down by Julia and started talking between them.

Their conversation, I don't mind admitting, even if Dídac is my cousin, is generally on very stupid things. Such as pot, girls, booze, hair gel, cars, girls, having sex with girls and how the world is going to be overruled by them/a bitch (this last one depends on their having hangovers/pot).

Only then did she show any signs of life. After only ten minutes, I saw her raise slightly her head to look at them archly over her pretty reading glasses. It was a glare of such force it could have silenced a horde of raving cockatoos. It did stop me mid-sentence, and she wasn't even looking at me. But Julia was there to take over, so it was alright.

The amazing thing is her Glare of Frozen Hell didn't even work on Dídac and Cristian. When Dídac noticed he kind of stared at her chest and said something to her I unfortunately couldn't hear. It had to be priceless. I think he flirted with her, since he is generally silly and more so in front of girls. He is possibly the biggest jerk I have ever encountered, but he has the kind of self-centered foolishness that sometimes makes people heroic. I have great fun at his expense, when he doesn't give me a headache.

She did this utterly disdainful toss of her head and went back to reading.

I swear, had any girl dismissed me like that –the daintiness of the gesture made it even stronger –I'd back off and go cry in a corner. Dídac? He stood his ground and tried to look unmoved. He went so far as to ignore her and keep talking to Cristian, which irritated her to no end… which made me secretly snicker at _both_ of them.

** *****

**From: Izzy Díaz **

**To: Jorge Díaz **

**Subject: re: doing okay**

Hey J!

That's good news! I'm so so happy you are doing good. You do sound better. And you should definitely expect me in two weeks. Dad wanted to come. We made him see you and I are actually closer, without telling him you had specifically asked for me. I'm not doing it again.

You know you'll have to face him soon, right?

And, oh, Grandad IS smoking again. I can tell because his voice sounds rough, but he won't admit it to me. Talk to him. Blackmail him emotionally. It's for his own good.

By the way, I think it quite unfair that you insist I have to write these lenghty reports on my daily life in Barcelona. I never get more than a hundred words from you. Still, if it makes you happy, here we go.

The actual campus is not bad, although most of the buildings are incredibly gray, lots of concrete, strange-shaped, you know. Possibly won many architectural awards when built. The library is fine, though: square building in red brick. Classic. They should really have more antique books.

There are cats, too. The kind that run off to hide if they spot you watching. Someone must leave them food, because some of them are quite fat. You would like them. There are also at least five different species of birds. In Barcelona I have only seen lots gray pigeons and the occasional sparrow.

And Charlie says that Julia says the grass will be full of people when the weather improves. Apparently then they skip classes or stay after lunch to sit under the trees, maybe someone brings a soccer ball or a guitar. It sounds bucolic, doesn't it, very eclogues of Garcilaso- except I don't think they actually cry and complain about Fate. I want to see it, anyway. Maybe next week, since I heard David say today there will hopefully be a warm spell. So far it's been sunny and windy. Still quite cold, but not as much as Madrid or (Charlie says) Firenze.

You were right, though. I was too quick to judge David. I can't agree with Caroline, who came yesterday to the campus only to see him. I mean, she clearly needs a hobby. Or a boyfriend. What does she mean, by coming all this way only to flirt with him? She said she wanted to check the prices in the travel agency, since they are apparently quite low. I'm not buying it, are you?

Not that he is paying her much attention. He is, if not handsome, very sensible. I haven't gathered enough courage to speak to him yet, but I know. I listen in on his conversations.

It _does_ sound creepy when written down. It's not, it's just silly. I don't have friends here except for C, and we don't go to class together in the morning. Each professor is always at least ten minutes late, I guess to give us time to rest and talk between classes. I don't feel like talking to anyone, so I just stand there and listen to people. Tuning David is at least interesting, if he isn't speaking Catalan.

He knows I'm listening, but hasn't said anything to me so far. On Wednesday he was entertaining (flirting with) this Polish girl and kept looking at me to see if I laughed at his jokes -and proved to be listening, I guess. He seemed playful, so I'll take my chance and talk to him this evening –C has invited him, his sister and their roomates to watch some Champions League game.

And, before you start thinking too much of this: _No, I do not like him that way_. I'm done with charmers. I just need someone intelligent to talk to.

I do like Julia, though. She has been to the cinema with us, and will take us to some museum this weekend. And she doesn't laugh at Charlie. She really is kind, and C just falls more and more in love each day they talk. I now actually hope it can work out, although I can't see how could she like him back. Not that I don't think him worthy of love, you know. It's only he is not himself with her. He is a stammering, foolish Charlie. Caro says it's cute. It makes me embarrased.

I will now go and try to conquer the bathroom. Caro has been in there for hours.

One big hug, OOOOO

Isabel

***

Their flat was even more expensive-looking than I had expected. I had thought the foreign trio -Madrid is sometimes foreign enough for me -had money, probably lots. It wasn't only because of their clothes. You know, casual expensive clothes. Shorts and shirts with names of Italian people on them, such as Giorgio Armani, Ermenegildo Zegna, Genaro Gattuso.

OK, that last one was a joke. Soccer joke.

Never mind, go ahead.

They had the air of people who don't have a worry about their future, because they will have all they want no matter what they do. Charlie had dropped out of Marketing after three years (that is, one year short of finishing) and was now studying History of Art. Caroline was taking a year off everything, "to, you know, live new experiences". I do not know, nor do I want to, what kind of experiences was she talking about. And Isabel was studying Spanish Literature and did not doubt she would be teaching at some prestigious university in ten years.

Yeah. And I want to be a highschool teacher.

Back to the story: Charlie greeted us all, looking excited. I was quite endeared to him already. I mean, the guy has three favourite soccer teams, because he acquires a new one everytime he changes countries. Liverpool because he went to a posh private British school, Real Madrid because the school happened to be in Madrid -his dad is a diplomat or something -and Milan because he has lived there, too, when studying Marketing. Now he says he's thinking about also supporting Barça, although I have told him you can't support both Madrid and Barcelona. It's morally wrong.

His sister and Isabel were in the kitchen, filling bowls with chips and checking that the beer was cold enough. Imported beer, no less. As soon as she saw me, Caroline took my arm in a very confident fashion that didn't annoy me but was quite perplexing.

"Sorry about the state of the flat, Day-vid," she said, pursing her lips. She insisted on pronouncing my name in English. All of her spoken Spanish sounded patronizing, as if she was speaking English but using Spanish words all the time so we mortals could understand her. "Charlie and Izzy said they wanted the real Erasmus experience and refused to hire help. Can you imagine?"

Yeah, right, I could imagine they were rich enough to think having to clean the toilet makes things more real, instead of simply more messy. Your typical Erasmus experience does NOT take place in a nice appartment -with a terrace, by the way -but in a crammed one without enough sunlight and an amazingly small and dirty kitchen… and too many excentric roomates.

"Dah-veed, it's Dah-veed," I told her. It must have been the fifth time since we had met. "The flat's good, don't worry."

It was. I mean, she hadn't seen our bathroom. It's been a long time since I gave up and started using the girls' until it was Mario's turn to clean again.

Their flat was fashionable. It was also centric, off-white, with fake Picassos on the walls and a terrace full of potted plants. Not only did they have all satellite channels, they had a huge TV set to match and a rug so comfortable I ended up sitting there instead of on the designer couch. Even the bathroom was large. And clean.

Anyway, we were there to watch Liverpool vs Porto, so we sat in front of said huge TV. Liverpool was my second favorite team, since I could see the English Premier League for free every weekend but watching Barça's games on public television was becoming harder. So Charlie and I were actually excited about the outcome. He even took out a Liverpool flag to pin on the back of the couch. To the rest, I guess it was an excuse to socialize.

He had invited Julia and me, and all of our roomates. Mario was going to arrive a bit late, since he came from his guitar practice, but Dídac and Cristian were already sprawled on the comfortable rug. Julia sat with Charlie on the couch.

I'm guessing you don't care much for the game. It was good, with the proper amout of anguish and anticipation, but in case you don't like soccer I'll only say that Torres and Mascherano were awesome. And...

Yes, fine, I'll refrain from commenting further. Won't even say who scored or anything.

The girls didn't care much. In fact, they looked quite bored with the game. The only reaction we got from them was when Porto failed a penalty and we all jumped up all "YEAH!". Charlie accidentally kicked Mario's beer bottle –which was empty –and won a scathing Isabel look.

Carla had engaged Caroline in conversation and was secretly laughing at her, I could see. Isabel was on the couch, just behind me, so I have no idea what was she doing. I think she had a book. And Julia looked happy to let Charlie tell her about everything he could think of, game-related or not.

Now, there are two main ways of getting laid in Spain. It probably works the same in more european countries, but I've never tried to hit on anyone when traveling.

OK, so _this_ is interesting and soccer is not, huh? Caught you.

Way one is the universal one-night stand, and you'll have to ask Dídac to know more about that. He's quite the expert. I have woken up lots of times to find a half-dressed girl standing in the corridor, gawking in horror at the incredibly dirty bathroom.

The other way is to get a girlfriend. You first meet a girl you like, or like a girl you know. But you don't ask her on a date straight away. No, because dates are serious. You first try to know her better in the safety of numbers. That is, when your friends meet hers, or stopping by her desk to ask about her day, or 'casually' going to the same parties.

You can flirt shamelessly or not flirt at all, you can try to be her friend or play hard-to-get, don't ask me because I haven't worked out yet which one works best. But if you ever think she might like you back, then you make your move. If you have the guts, that is. If you are lucky, she will be your girl and no-one else's –and you'll be similarly expected not to chase after anyone else, no matter how serious or how mild the relationship might be.

I once knew an American girl who went around saying she had four boyfriends. I told her people looked oddly at her because they thought she was seriously dating all four of them. Anyway, seeing four people doesn't reflect well on your character in Spain. Especially if you are a girl.

Of course this is slowly changing, with girls making bold moves to get their guy, people agreeing to be friends with benefits and people dating through the internet. But you get my point: Straight-forward equals one-night stand. Taking your time and doing it the hard way equals serious dating.

And Charlie was definitely taking his time. He wasn't even flirting –he didn't need to, because it was pretty obvious to everyone that he was into her. Julia insisted he was only being nice and tried not to give away how ecstatic she was about his attentions. But I know her well, and that was simply her way to face deep feelings.

We didn't move after the game ended. Caroline switched channels and we kind of stood there hanging around. Mario was too shy to do anything, Cristian and Dídac were very comfortable on the rug, having stolen the chip bowl, and the rest of us didn't want to disturb the lovebirds.

I was talking to Carla when I noticed Isabel was listening in. Don't know why, though, because I don't think she actually understood Catalan.

OK, in case you don't know, Catalan is a Romance language. It is official in, let's say, the north-east of Spain, including places you might now such as Barcelona, Lloret de Mar, Majorca, Valencia or Andorra. There's an incredibly detailed article in Wikipedia, if you are interested. I'll just say Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia, one of the territories in which Catalan is official. That means school is mostly in Catalan, and there's TV channels, music, radio, literature, free courses, and millions of Catalan-speakers. We can all speak Spanish, too, and it is in fact the most used of the two languages. In Barcelona people just speaks whatever they like. It's not uncommon to have a conversation in both languages, in fact-

I do get side-tracked, don't I?

Anyway, I was peeved at how she kept eaves-dropping on my conversations with others but not saying anything at all. I mean, she just stood there, looking interested. So, to Carla's delight, I switched to Spanish and went:

"So, Isabel, what did you think of the explanation of Catalan and Catalonia I gave to the Polish girl before Renaissance Poetry?"

There is a certain danger in talking about this with people whose political ideas you don't know, especially if they aren't local. Let's just say Catalonia and Spain are nowadays married, but they have the kind of past you don't want to bring up in polite conversation. Opinons range widely, from "Let's enjoy cultural diversity!" to "I HATE fucking Catalans/Spaniards!" It is quite common in Europe, I guess. We have quite a mild case –no terrorists, after all. Don't want you to think this is North Ireland 2.

It wasn't kind of me, but I was actually hoping for a confrontation. I was quite disappointed, then, when she said, fingering her off the shoulder sweater:

"I think you are very proud of your heritage."

OK. Not fight material, since I am very moderate myself. I still wanted her NOT to listen to my conversations with the Polish girl again, since it made me edgy and unable to flirt. So I pressed on: "Rightfully so, you think?"

She smiled at me. I guess it was a kind smile, but I found it patronizing. "I can't help but think you probably overstate the quality and importance of Catalan literature."

Yeah, I got what I wanted. And I felt deeply offended. I mean, I was majoring in both Catalan and Spanish literature. I had read it and studied it and was not going to let some foreigner –from Madrid, admittedly –tell me in not so many words that she thought Spanish literature was better. Because she clearly had no idea.

With a cold head I'll always say they are both excellent, you know. I just happen to take it very personally, never mind which one of the cultures is being attacked. I am told it's quite natural.

So, still smiling, I opened my mouth to ask what she had read, exactly –only to be distracted by Carla shoving Mario's guitar at me.

"David, why don't you play for us?"

Now, that was not meant to save Isabel from my wrath. Carla simply dislikes any form of discussion on ideologies, most af all those involving national identities and political use of languages.

"What? Why?"

"Oh please, David, you do play very sweetly," pleaded Julia.

So, it was a plot. I protested, but clearly they would not let me argue with Isabel. Dídac had sat up, and Cristian went, as I checked the guitar was tuned:

"Play _Como Camarón_!" Yes, well, it is an old song but he likes it a lot. Mostly because I try to sing as angrily as Estopa and always end up laughing. Or coughing, and gasping for air. Everybody knows the song, anyway, so I complied. Cristian himself yelled with me each "¡_Como Camarón_!". Caroline pursed her lips, probably thinking it was low-class. It was, it's part of the charm. But Caroline's disapproval made it even more entertaining.

After that, I lanched into _Portaavions_ by Antònia Font. I chose it because I really like playing it, although it is not very popular. I was quite taken my an amateur videclip you can find in youtube if you mistype the title as "_portavions_". Also, I figured I would play one Spanish song and one in Catalan.

But when I reached "_Li falta una capa de mel_" I could not stop myself and I looked over at Isabel. It was just so fitting. I do that often, in fact. Relating the song to someone around me, as a joke or a compliment. But it was a naughty, since she could not really understand the Catalan lyrics, and I didn't actually mean to please her. Rather the contrary.

Carla noticed and started sniggering. It quite ruined my melancholy interpretation, but I guess my laughing with her made it look unoffending. And I of course hadn't meant to offend her. Much. To my relief, she only furrowed her brow slightly at me and made no comment.

After that, and since I didn't want to play in the first place, I just handed over the guitar to Mario. I mean, I really enjoy playing. But having everyone's attention on me makes me self-conscious, because I know I don't actually play well.

Mario does, but instead of choosing what people likes to hear, he keeps trying to play the most difficult solos he knows. Giving him a guitar when there's people around is not the wisest move, because he bores them, but he is always so happy to have an audience. He just doesn't know how to please. It's a shame, 'cause he really is proficient.

Only ten minutes after giving him the guitar, Caroline yawned and Julia jumped up, all decided and ready to leave.

But I refuse to consider myself responsible of depriving Charlie and her of each other's company, because he managed to invite her out with them on Sunday.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: re: re: re: doth protest too much**

Hey!

OK, this is a quick note because I really need to finish some book for tomorrow. But Caroline just came into my room to tell me she has found the lyrics of the song I told you about. Remember? Now, I don't know how she did it, because we had never heard the song, but apparently there's no-one as resourceful and cunning as our little Caro with a laptop. It is a scary thought.

The song, as far as I can tell by the Catalan lyrics, is about a breakup or something similar. And the 'hilarious' bit is:

_Li falta una capa de mel, _ _li falta una banda sonora en aquesta mirada d'oliva i de gel._

I take it you do not need translation. I have to say I am confused. It is not vexing at all, is it? I mean, it seems kind of… playful? He was fooling around, I know, and I really don't feel offended. It is hard to be angry with David, I've found.

Ah, yes, how would you translate it to English? Caro so wants to know the *exact* meaning. I am thinking:

_It lacks a honey glaze, _ _it lacks a soundtrack, this olive and ice gaze._

Except maybe it would work better as "it's lacking", or "it needs". What do you think? I am quite content I worked out a rhyme. Yes, I am _very_ bored. Or rather, I am procrastinating. My book is boring me to death.

Also, Caro is midly piqued because she thinks I'm competing with her. I only said David's eyes are _fine_ (they are) and she jumped to the conclusion I want to date him or something.

And the song thing doesn't help, I guess, although I'm sure it wasn't meant as a compliment.

Whatever.

She now keeps joking about what will it be like when David and I are married.

…¿?

I'm back to my book.

Love you!

Isabel


	3. Chapter 3

_Per vós me só mes en amar  
e mon ull no em vol descobrir;  
molt menys la llengua voldrà dir  
ço que el gest no gosa mostrar._

For you, I have started to love  
and my eyes won't give me away  
less so my tongue will want to say  
what my actions don't dare to show.

Ausiàs March, _Ja no esper que sia amat_

_   
_

Easter -spring break -or any kind of holiday that lasts longer than a weekend, means a massive exodus from our flats. They feel especially empty if Dídac leaves -he really makes a lot of noise. You can't imagine how quiet and clean it is without him.

That evening it was only him, mom, Julia and me, so we had family dinner at the girls'. Mom and Dídac were leaving early next morning. She was going to Paris with her latest boyfriend, and Dídac was heading home with my uncle and aunt. Julia and I were in high spirits –we were to have the whole floor to ourselves, for a week!

Dídac was telling mom of the latest haircut he had seen, and who knows what else –though I have to say she always listens to him. She would like me to be more like him, against all possible logic. Dídac is more handsome than I, and he also took better care of his appearance. He's kind of a metrosexual. He even waxes his legs, seriously. Mom, who has never been in his room, associates this with cleanliness. And she sees something very masculine in his long string of conquests. Also, I resemble dad too much, I guess. Not only in looks. I'm on good terms with him –while Julia is actually not.

This sounds a bit resentful, doesn't it? I'm alright. She loves me, I love her, we just would like to change each other in more than one way. And I would really appreciate it if she would stop talking about dad in front of Julia and me.

Ahem.

So… As Dídac and mom were talking over tomato salad, I was good-humoredly telling Julia about my last clash with Isabel.

As luck had it, I had barely seen Isabel lately. One day I missed the class we shared, and then she disappeared for a whole week. Charlie said she was visiting her brother in Scotland. So we only saw each other in one class before spring break, but she managed to piss me off anyway. She didn't eavesdrop at all but, during the lesson, Professor Quesada kept asking her her thoughts on the eclogue we were commenting. Why? Because, apparently, her granddad is _Carlos José de Burgos_.

OK, I can see you are not getting it. Carlos José de Burgos might be THE specialist on Baroque Poetry. The guy is awesome. Also, a rumored monster. Which would explain his grand-daughter's airs and personality.

And, sure, she said intellingent things, and even looked a bit flustered at the attention. But still. Professor Quesada is mine. We've got this nice master/padawan routine since my first year. He had even offered me his support, should I want to do a PhD. Which I didn't think I wanted to do, but still.

And maybe her being someone's grand-daughter wasn't her fault, OK. But afterwards, as we were gathering our things to go –she had sat by me in first row, don't know why –she asked out of nowhere:

"What are you doing your paper on?"

"Catalan influence on Garcilaso de la Vega's poetry."

"Is there such a thing?"

…gah. I looked up at her. She was sorting her pens by color. She looked strangely efficient in her tight but sober clothes. Turtlenecks, pencils skirts, you know. She was always far too dressed up for class.

She had a grey cloth flower pinned to her braid, next to one tiny ear, which distracted me. I imagine that's why her comment didn't nettle me much.

"Well, yeah. Ausiàs March." Of which she hadn't heard, obviously. Her loss. I rose and stretched, thinking the conversation was over.

"Fine. I'll be doing Petrarchist influence, then. And may the best man win. Or girl," she added, with the slightest smile.

I frowned mid-stretch, unable to believe her. "Is that a challenge?"

She pressed her lips, her smile tightening the corners of her mouth, and shouldered her big purse, apparently thinking yet –I was sure -actually taking her time to make me nervous. It didn't last much, but it worked. In the end she stared at me, slightly flushed and holding her notebook to her chest with her free arm.

"Yes, I think it is. We both want the highest mark, don't we?" Only then did she start walking towards the door, but turned around halfway. "And do pass me your paper afterwards –I am curious to know who this March was."

At this point of the tale, Julia started laughing at me.

"But David, that's only fair play!" she objected, merrily shaking her head at me. "I can't see what's so wrong about her wanting to be top of the class."

"It's just so… conceited! Not the fact that she wants to beat me. It's her daring to challenge me, really. Who does she think she is?" I was chuckling too, although I had been quite incensed about it in the morning.

"What are you laughing about?" Mom said, smiling at us curiously.

"David is competing with this girl from Madrid."

"The scary one?" Said Dídac. He held his hand to highfive, and I complied. "Man, she's gonna gorge your eyes out."

"Dídac!" yelped mom, all disgusted. "We are having dinner!"

"What! It's true! She's a psycopath!"

"That's no reason to speak like that when we are eating! Oooh, I've lost my appetite, thank you very much. I can't eat anymore. I won't. Anyway I'm too fat. I should start a diet, I look twice my age…"

Julia passed me mom's plate and I served her her share of sausages. She says something like that every evening, so we don't take much notice. She recovers her appetite as soon as she forgets she had lost it.

As I returned her the plate, and mom complained, Julia's cell started to play Coldplay's _Viva la vida_. My sister always uses a different ringtone for special people. I had the feeling Charlie was calling, judging by the way she perked up and ran from the room -she's always forgetting her cell around, so she always has to find it before picking up. Once she left it at home and, when I tried to call her, I made the disturbing discovery she had chosen Paulina Rubio's _Ni una sola palabra_ as my ringtone. I have never dared to ask her why, but really, what the hell?

When she returned to the table several minutes later, her sausages were cold; Dídac had stolen one of them and was at the moment trying to convince us that Julia had said he could eat her rice pudding. Julia makes it on special occasions. It's delicious. And Dídac was so not going to get Julia's bowl.

"Charlie has invited us to his sister's cottage in _Vall de Boí_. To visit the Romanesque churches. I said I could go from Thursday to Saturday, David, do you mind? Will you come?"

"No way. And I don't mind, as long as you are back on Sunday to eat our Easter cake."

Wow, I wasn't expecting Charlie to make a move so soon. Good for him, really. Trees, blossoming rosemary, wild flowers, sheeps, chirping birds waking you up at dawn… I couldn't think of a more romantic place. Maybe the seaside. But it was too cold for that, anyway.

Julia hugged me across the table as she placed her bowl further from Dídac's grasp. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be here Saturday night at the very last."

Once upon a time, the traditional easter cake was a simple brioche with a boiled egg on top. Then the egg became a chocolate egg, which, in my opinion, was a great idea. And now we top a fancy cake with an enormous and artistic chocolate construction. Castles, cars, cartoon characters, anything you can think of is made of chocolate, put on the cake and given as a present to children.

Julia and I are kids at heart. It's been more than ten years since we started our own tradition: during lent, we'd save money to buy the biggest and prettiest chocolatey thing we could get. And then, on Sunday, we'd eat it all and be high on sugar and, eventually, sick.

"I can't believe Caro has a house in _Vall de Boí_, though," I said, returning to my pudding.

"Oh, it's their older sister's, actually. Her name is Louisa, she's very nice. Caro will be there too, and so will Isabel."

OK, then it was definite. I wasn't going.

"Are you visiting those rich friends of yours, then, dearie?" My mom has an obsession with rich people. She thinks we should 'cultivate friendships in high circles'. Considering Julia is studying Anthropology to go study lost tribes in Africa and I plan to become a highschool teacher in less than two years, I don't think my mom's plan makes much sense.

"Um, yes."

"Ooh, how nice. You should stay 'til Monday, then. Don't worry about your brother. In fact, you should take him. He needs to get out. I'm sure you could introduce him to some of your girl friends. They sound delightful."

Yes, my mom knows my sister has more influence over me than she does. So she's always trying to make her make me do things. She's so obvious about it, I usually take it as a joke.

"The brunette's a psycopath" piped Dídac, going through the cupboards to check if the girls appartment had any chocolate left.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Julia eyed me dubiously, knowing I was, for once, in agreement with Dídac.

"Very sure. You take the car, I won't use it at all."

"No, no." My mom sounded appalled. You see, the car is new. It's an enormous thing resembling a Land Rover, product of her midlife crisis. There's lots of them in Barcelona. None of them looks like it has actually been roving any land. And most of them are driven by women around their forties. "You can't take the car, you've only had your licence for three months!"

I started to protest, but Julia yielded way too easily. As she usually does.

"It's alright, I'll take the train and they'll get me at the station. I'm too scared to drive all the way."

"You see? And this way, you can stay if you want and they will drive you home. I really think you should stay the whole week, if you could. And David should go too. David, you could take your sister with your motorbike. So you both could stay until Monday."

"Don't want to intrude, mom. And I always spend this Sunday with David." With me and chocolate enough for a party of fifteen. Last year we melted the last of the huge chocolate Tweety we had bought and had chocolate fondue for dinner. Then we couldn't sleep and spent the whole night giggling -and groaning, once the stomachaches kicked in.

"Do as you wish. You always do whatever you want in the end," said mom, without an ounce of resignation. "I hope it rains and you stay there. You obviously don't know what's good for you."

I smiled at Julia. Maybe she would stay, after all, with Charlie and the rosemary and the chirping birds. She deserved to. I was going to tell her that, but I saw from the corner of my eye Dídac was slinking away from the kitchen. And it was HIS turn to clean up.

So I guess that's how it was decided Julia would go to Louisa's ski retreat by train, and she would go alone.

***

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: ** _ **Vacaciones I** _

Dear J,

I'm so sorry I haven't written before. I figured out I would take maximum profit of the three days I had before Julia arrived, and Charlie relegated me to second place and went all mushy on her, forgetting all about me.

You see, C and Caro invited Julia and David, but only Julia was up for it. I don't blame David. But that left me with one couple-to-be and Caro, Hugo and Louisa. Hugo was Louisa's snowboard teacher before being her second husband. He is only interested in extreme sports he can no longer practice due to a heart condition. He spends the day eating and sleeping. And Louisa is an older version of Caroline, only she has had a nose job and her hair is dyed even blonder. She just loves playing Perfect Hostess, but she isn't actually very good at it...

So, even if the house is quaint, the surroundings are agreable, my best friend is here and there's wireless connection to the internet, it didn't look like it would be so much fun once Julia came. That is why I thought I'd write to you now. C and I went on a nature walk on Monday, horseback riding with Caro on Tuesday and spent a rainy Wednesday playing foosball and pool at the local bar.

Yet, luckily for me, Thursday has proven to be misfortunate yet lively. Julia arrived last evening by train, and had to wait for us to go get her at the station, because her cell phone was uncharged and she couldn't call before getting there. It was raining, the station is drafty, and she got so wet, poor girl, she woke up this morning having caught the cold to end all colds.

Which is not fun, I know. She wasn't having a great time. Also, I do share a room with her, and with all her coughing and my getting her glasses of water and another blanket and such, it wasn't the most restful of nights. She is very sweet, but I was relieved when Charlie woke up and I could leave the nursing to him and go sleep in his bed.

The entertaining part is the one that comes now:

We were all downstairs except C and Julia, who were in her room watching a movie in my laptop. We were having breakfast at noon, because Louisa had woken up at half past eleven and insisted on making pancakes. We heard an engine ouside the house and Louisa ran to check on whoever it was through the window. She said it was a man, on a motorbike. She opened the door. Caro choked on her yoghurt. It was…

David Benet. A very untidy David Benet. Leather jacket, sweaty t-shirt, muddy mountain boots, you can imagine.

We gaped at him, and he said, carefully taking his mountain boots off so he wouldn't muddle the floor:

David: Hi. I'm sorry I came like this, I do not mean to… How is my sister doing?

Caro and Louisa were still looking at him up and down, up and down.

Me: Upstairs. Still a bit feverish.

Charlie appeared in the landing and smiled, obviously expecting him. Because Julia and he had called David earlier in the day, but since it was to be a short visit he hadn't thought of telling us.

He could have. I would so not have been wearing my pyjamas.

And anyway, what was he doing there? So his sister had a cold, was feverish, had called him. So what? Was he a doctor, on top of being a literature student? Isn't it weird, he came all this way to see his sister?

Never mind. Right after we heard the door of Julia's room close behind them, Louisa and Caro started prattling like startled birds: What did he mean by coming all this way? And his boots? Had Caro seen his boots? Six inches deep in mud! And his hair! So untidy and tousled! He hadn't even shaved! He looked almost wild! Caro hoped Luoisa had noticed his t-shirt, he must have slept in it! Was it not way too tight?

You might think they were upset. They were not. They were so not. They were giggling, all delirious with excitement because a disheveled over-attentive brother had appeared on their doorstep. And fine, it had been a surprise, and I will go as far as to say a _pleasant_ surprise. But Louisa's married, and Hugo was there, even if admittedly not paying much attention. Not to mention Caro. She seemed to believe he had come solely for her.

Her silly infatuation has been my entertainment today, although it is a bit worrying how self-absorbed she can be. She chases after him all the time, and he is apparently oblivious to her attentions. She is always touching his arm, trying to make conversation, laughing when she shouldn't, admiring his brotherly sacrifice in coming here, or simply preening herself when he is within sight or earshot. You should totally see her, it's _priceless_.

And at this moment, Julia must be the most well-attended convalescent in Spain. She's got her brother, her admirer, her brother's admirer and Perfect Hostess fussing all over her and completely at her disposal. She has to get well soon, no matter how feverish she was this morning. So don't make me feel guilty at drawing pleasure from the circumstances.

I have to go now –dinner is ready. David made a big potato omelette and some pasta salad for dinner. Yes, Perfect Hostess lets her guests feel that they are intruding and have to compensate their stay. I have to say I admire how Louisa has managed not to clean one dish in the four days we've been here. I bet you she won't clean up today, either.

_¡Guapo! Te quiero._

Isa.

*******

So there I was. In a house too big to be called a cottage, with my lovely yet runny-nosed sister, a doting and concerned Charlie, an effusive Caroline I didn't understand, their scary sister, an apathetic ex-ski tutor, and Isabel -who kept staring at me from behind her laptop while I cooked dinner. Had she never seen anyone cook a Spanish omelette?

I make them really good, though, so maybe it was the smell. I thought she stared because she didn't like it, but later I noticed she had a second helping. Still, I didn't care enough to wonder. I was on edge all the time.

They had been very nice to me, so I didn't actually have a cause for complain, but I still didn't feel comfortable. Charlie had lended me clothes after I took a shower, and had also proposed that I should stay for a few days. Louisa, Caroline and Julia all insisted they wanted me to, and I was already there, so I said I would.

But still, I didn't think Julia needed me that much, with Charlie there, and the rest of them kind of got on my nerves. I had the feeling Louisa and Caroline were expecting something from me, Isabel was laughing at me and Hugo didn't care at all whether I was there.

I didn't know what to do after Charlie and I finished cleaning up, since Julia was already asleep and the rest had started playing Uno. Charlie joined them, and I got my copy of Garcilaso's rhymes from my backpack and tried to read again. There is something very reassuring about reading a poem you have already descyphered. So I tried to hear the rythm of the sonnets inside my head, but failed. Caroline wouldn't stop talking, even if –thankfully –she wasn't talking to me, because my sofa was behind her chair.

"And how is your brother, Izzy? Where did you say he was?"

"Boarding school in Scotland," came the laconic answer, along with "Reverse."

"Why hasn't he come back for spring break? He's so sensitive, isn't he. I dare say he will be very homesick."

Hugo reminded her it was actually her turn, and apparently she complied and played for two seconds, only to start again:

"Did you two fight?"

OK, I have to admit I wasn't reading anymore. My eyes were fixed on the first verse, "While roses and lilies", and I was actually listening in very attentively.

"No," said Isabel, clearly annoyed. "But my dad isn't in town, and he saw me last week."

"Isabel and Jorge don't fight. She is the best of sisters, unlike others I could name," said Charlie, in good humour.

"I'd say that's because _Jorge_ is a good brother. He is always so polite, so charming. And so talented. I'm sure he will grow up to be a very interesting, accomplished man."

"Why, that is hardly a praise at all. Draw two, Caro."

"What do you mean? Draw two, Hugo."

"_Mierda_," said Hugo, having to draw four. By this time I had already kneeled on the sofa, and the only thing that prevented me from talking was the fact that Charlie had switched the conversation to English, and I'm quite shy about my spoken English.

Yeah, well, I have to be shy about _something_. The fact I'm writing this for all of you to read doesn't make me inmune to backwardness.

"Everyone is interesting in their own way. And accomplished, too. I'm sure anyone can be quite cool once you get to know them," said Charlie. It was a very Charlie-ish way to think about people. Julia would have agreed with him.

"You are right, interesting is an abused word," said Isabel, studying her cards and dropping one, "We use it too much, and it has lost its true meaning. I think I only know about half a dozen truly, completely accomplished people our age, and I personally believe only accomplished people can be authentically interesting."

"Half a dozen? Only?" While I was sure Isabel couldn't have many friends, I was so shocked by her unkind remark I just had to barge in. With scarcely four words, yes. But I said them with lots of feeling and lots of Spanish accent.

"Interesting people are so hard to come by" said Caroline, blinking at me in a disturbing way.

I have to say, I was beginning to suspect she was flirting with me. I was trying to let her know I wasn't interested in the most delicate way possible. She wasn't taking my hints, though.

She was… too sly for my taste. She seemed false in her praises, her friendship, her way of dressing, and the disheveled bun that had probably taken her at least half an hour to get right. Also, she was pretty, but too skinny to be nice to look at.

I mean. Julia is thin, but not because she is on a diet or anything. She just has a doe-like slenderness that looks soft and natural. Whereas _Caro_ only eats low-fat yoghourts. I swear it's true. And she is… bony. She and Louisa looked like starved models, which I am sure is very elegant, but necessitates a very disappointing lack of curves. Isabel was far more appealing, even if I thought her to be a heartless, bitter bitch.

Er, yes, back to the story:

"What are the requirements for being accomplished and interesting, in your opinion, then?" The question, only slightly mocking, was meant for Isabel, but it was Caroline who answered while Isabel looked at us with very serious and very dark eyes.

"Why! Someone accomplished must be successful in their studies and career, speak at least three languages, and be cultured. By cultured I mean he or she must have travelled and have opinions on art, music, cinema, history, spirituality, politics… And they must cultivate at least one of these things, maybe playing an instrument or something. They must take care of their appearance and always be fashionable and stylish. And they must have a certain something in their air and manner of walking, or the word will only be half-deserved."

As I stared at Caroline and Louisa, who nodded her approval, I could only wonder what world did they live in. How could a sane person expect all these things from someone else, or even themselves? Was this what these girls were trying to accomplish? Was this the reason they seemed so false to me?

"And they must be independent, I think, and able to take care of themselves and those around them, and of doing basic household chores" finished Isabel, looking at me. I got it: she was referring to my potato omelette. Why thank you Isabel, I feel much better now that I know I am partially interesting in your opinion. Because I was so worried.

"I'm no longer surprised you only know half a dozen people our age that are truly accomplished, or whatever. I'm now surprised you know _any_."

"Do you doubt the possibility?" said Caroline, with a flirty smile.

"I've yet to meet such a person. Are you sure the ones you know aren't plastic? Kens, Barbies, and such?" I mean, what about selfless people? What about people who cared more about being good and happy than about waxing their legs and doing sit-ups and talking about Kubrick films to show off?

Charlie and Louisa laughed, possibly for different reasons. Caroline giggled and swatted me. Isabel smiled secretively, looking at her cards. And Hugo said: "Are we playing or not?"

They agreed they were playing. So I flopped down to the couch, seeing the conversation had ended, and tried to read. "While roses and lilies…"

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: ** ** _Vacaciones II_ **

I'm still waiting for an answer to my last letter, but since I have fresh news, there you go:

Julia is doing fine, as I predicted, and is right now sitting on the backyard stairs wrapped in a quilt. Charlie is with her, marveling at the fact that they are both twenty-four. I had thought she was younger than David, too. But still. The way he acts, you'd think they are the only twenty-four-years-old people in the world.

We are all outside, since it's sunny and Julia said she needed some fresh air. As you can see, she is a benevolent ruler. Caro and Louisa are trying to sunbathe as much as the fresh air will let them, while cheering Hugo and David. They are playing rather half-heartedly with a soccer ball.

I'm worried Caro will be the next one to catch a cold. It's not nearly hot enough yet for the cleavage she's displaying. I'm so not taking off my scarf.

Oh, wait, wait. David and Hugo have just stopped playing and Caro is approaching D. They have started to walk and she has taken his arm. Will she make her move now?

She is upset with me because I told her to shut up last night. I've given up my bed in Julia's room so David could be there, and Charlie gave up his for me and so now he's sleeping on the couch. But I'd rather have the couch than bed-time chats with Caro on David's hotness. So I told her. And now she thinks I'm jealous or something. She switched to jokes on his _fine eyes_ and what it will be like when _I_ marry David.

The girly talk was better, of course. I must learn to shut up.

They are approaching. It's kind of fun, spying on them live for you.

Caro: Isabel, are you writing to Jorge again? You type so fast.

I've answered I type quite slowly. They are passing by again. David is looking at the view, not at Caro.

Caro: Are you including a reflection on fine eyes, Isabel? (to David) She writes wonderful e-mails, full of words of four syllables.

She's _mocking_ me.

She's so funny.

They're back again. David looks like he wants to walk somewhere else, instead of just parading in front of us.

Caro: Aren't you jealous, Isabel?

Oooh.

Be right back.

Back. I told her I both was and was not. What could I mean?, she wanted to know. David laughingly said he'd rather not ask. But she had to, of course. I said:

Me: I envy you your flirting, because it's more pleasant than writing an e-mail. But I also think I have a better view of David's backside from here.

David laughed and disentangled himself, shy at my mention of her flirting –'cause he hadn't been flirting back. Caro caught his arm again, all possessive. They had stopped walking.

Caro: Really! You only want to shock us, don't you? David, how shall we punish her?

David: We could laugh back at her. It usually works.

Caroline said she didn't dare laugh at me, since I was ever so smart and would surely outwit her. She quite outdid herself with the sarcastic tone. He was jokingly outraged that he could not laugh at me, since he told us he likes to laugh at people's silliness, and what was he to do if people started outwitting him? Caro replied I was too serious and wise to be laughed at.

She was becoming irritating, really.

David (to me): I am not to laugh with serious matters, so I'll have to make do without laughing at you. But are you sure you have no faults?

Me: I try hard not to have any that could make me ridiculous.

David: Such as vanity and pride?

See what Caro had managed?

I told him vanity is a fault, but I don't think pride is, when one has reasons to be proud. He smiled and said I obviously had no faults, then. I protested. I know I'm not especially compliant to other's wishes. And I can be quite unforgiving, even resentful. As Grandpa says, _my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever_.

He said that this was something he couldn't laugh at, and we agreed everyone has their faults.

David: So yours is a propensity to hate everyone.

Me: And yours is wanting to misunderstand them.

He laughed, and poor Caro felt so left out she stomped away, no doubt expecting he'd follow her. He didn't. He's sitting with Charlie and Julia now.

And I hope you enjoyed my banter with David, who proved able to outwit me if he wishes. I enjoyed the transcription, and the arguing was fun, too. See? I'm making friends. But don't expect me to do this with all my conversations! Once you have your PSP back I won't feel like I need to entertain you.

Take care,

Isabel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VickyVicarious is my beta and I've promised her a temple.


	4. Chapter 4

_¡Oh más dura que el mármol a mis quejas,  
_ _y al encendido fuego en que me quemo  
más helada que nieve, Galatea!_

Harder than marble to my complaints,  
and to the blazing fire in which I burn  
icier than snow, Galatea!

Garcilaso de la Vega, _Eclogue I_

_   
_

On Saturday morning, we decided to go visit the little town of Taüll and its two churches. Julia felt much better and Charlie insisted on making the trip, since he hadn't yet realized she was more than willing to stay 'til Monday.

_I_ wasn't. I wanted to get away as soon as possible, but had to get a word with Julia first so I could leave her there if she wanted. Hanging around with the in-crowd, being nice and not so nice to each other, was beginning to wear me down. I have no problem with being nice, making small talk and such. But they all felt so fake, except for Charlie. Caroline was acting like a charming but spoiled kid, forcing me to pay attention to her. Louisa didn't care much for me, and her attempts to make me feel at ease were half-hearted at best. Hugo slept a lot. And Isabel kept staring at me, saying nothing. It was unnerving.

Also, I know I'm not the tidiest of guys, but I was starting to feel really unkempt. They all seemed to put so much effort in looking perfect. Even Charlie and Julia, though I know they had specific reasons to try so hard. I felt out of place. It was mainly the stubble. I always feel much better after shaving. And Charlie's clothes were slightly too big on me. And too expensive.

To top it all, Caroline was being more and more obvious, maybe thinking I wasn't getting the hints. She didn't have to worry about that, really. She ought to have checked whether I was giving her hints, too.

So I was happy to do something on Saturday morning. There was seven of us, and Louisa decided she would take five of us to Taüll in her car, and Caroline and I would drive there by motorbike.

I imagine she had something to do with that. It was weird, because there was Isabel's incredibly clean Mini, and no need to use the motorbike or to crowd Louisa's Mercedes. But no-one else seemed to notice.

I hadn't bought my motorbike to impress girls, by the way. I bought it to annoy my mom. It's a second hand, and her name is Cassandra. Yes, I've named her. It's better than naming other things I will not mention here. Ahem. It's not a great motorbike, but I guess in Caroline's eyes it was a more attractive ride than the fashionable cars.

It wasn't as awkward as I would have expected at first –she clung a lot, squealed in every bump and clamped her knees around my thighs quite hard. She really was thin. I mean, she could poke me with the inside of her knee. Is it me, or is that just being definitely too skinny?

I thought so.

The village was as small as they come, a clutter of blue roofs surrounded by green hills. We arrived there faster than Louisa's car, of course. Difficult roads are really my thing. I love them, and they love me. As we took our helmets off, I thought this was the opportunity I had been seeking -I needed to speak to her in private. Caroline seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and trailed the tip of her fingers down the front of the Oxford shirt Charlie had lent me. She looked straight into my eyes, and I felt a bit like a rabbit about to be driven over by a car.

"You don't have to leave today, you know," she purred.

I blame all this on the fact that she is American. No Spanish girl would have been that obvious without having had a couple of drinks first. And I don't mean any offense by it. In case there're American girls reading this, you see.

If you must know, and I imagine you must, I shifted and took one step backwards, practically toppling Cassandra. And I heard myself talking. I said:

"Look, I have the impression –though I might be wrong, of course –that you are flirting with me." I know. I actually said that. "And you are very… attractive. But I don't think this could, we could, er… you are not my type."

I should have said it wasn't a good moment for me, or that I was head over heels in love with Carla. I don't even know why I said that. OK, I know. She scared me. And I spoke without thinking, just blurting it out like that. _Voilà_, I know you like me and I don't like you back.

Thank God I didn't add "'cause you are scary and way too skinny". I am stupid, but not THAT stupid.

I could tell she was shocked that I had been so straight-forward. Half a second later, though, she was glaring daggers at me with narrowed eyes. _Now_ she looked way more alarming than before, but I was relieved I had scared her away.

"Aren't you conceited. I have NOT been flirting with you," she said, with so much disdain that she made me believe for a good two seconds that I had been wrong. And very conceited.

Only for two seconds, though.

I smiled sheepishly at her anyway and grimaced as if I had made a mistake. Which I had, but you know. Feeling guilty, I went: "Oh. Sorry, then. I'm so bad at these things, Caroline."

It didn't help. She hated me. She claimed she needed to use the bathroom and vanished. Just vanished, I swear, and didn't return until the others arrived, and then took her sister aside and they talked in hushed tones. I acted as if I didn't know they were talking about me and attached myself to Charlie. Isabel, being the clever girl she is, frowned at me at me even before she approached the conspiring sisters.

I had previously thought I was intruding, but it was nothing compared to how I felt after rejecting Caroline. I felt like kicking myself. And I was _so_ leaving that afternoon, as soon we returned from the trip.

So… On with the visit, I guess. There are two churches to visit in Taüll: Sant Climent and Santa Maria. They are Romanesque, all stony and sturdy. They are also quite small, although their bell towers seem very high, way higher than they really are. It's because there are no tall buildings around to compete with, I guess.

I followed Charlie and Julia around, and they were kind enough to tell me the things I had to admire. I liked the uncomplicated, simple combination of straight lines and round arches. And the frescos, although I was told they were fake. The original ones were peeled off the wall and are currently sitting in a museum in Barcelona. The famous _Pantocrator_ I had studied in high-school was there, and looked far more impressive than in print. It's this simple drawing over the altar of a majestic-looking Christ drawn in bold black lines and painted with basic colours. He has a really intense, almond-shaped glare. I swear Isabel held a staring contest with him. She stood there, just looking at him, far longer than anyone else.

Caroline was set to let me know she didn't care about my refusal at all. Her plan was to act as if nothing had happened, I guess, so as we left Santa Maria she attached herself to my arm and made conversation. I felt sorry for her, and quite guilty myself. I tried to entertain her as we strolled around the village, but she was tense and her teasing felt fake.

Then Charlie saw a little family restaurant and insisted he was treating us all to lunch. I really like the man. If he had to invite five more people in order to buy Julia lunch, he just did it. I patted his back as we went in, and tried not to sit next to his sister.

Over a delicious and very hot _escudella_ of rice and short noodles, I started my campaign to make Julia stay.

"Julia, look... Carla has called today to say her neighbors are celebrating a traditional slaughter -they're butchering a pig and making sausages by hand and all that." This last bit I had to explain to a suddenly wide-eyed Charlie sitting next to her. "She says there's going to be a big party and we're invited to help and make merry and such."

Now, don't think Spaniards regularly slaughter animals in the street. Carla is from a small town of farmers and shepherds, and some of the families still have a pen with a couple of pigs, or a dozen hens, or such, mainly to make their elders happy. And because homemade salami is really good, too.

Julia eyed me disbelievingly. "And you want to go."

"We're actually quite close by, and I thought it would be fun. The making sausages bit, I mean. And the eating. There will be lots of food..."

"But-" Julia started, either horrified or about to start laughing at me.

"You can stay, if you don't want to go," burst Charlie, and I noticed he had this tendency to lean towards her when sitting. He was looking at her now, expectantly.

She looked back at him, smiling shyly, and turned to me. "But what about our chocolate Sunday? We have to... oh." She saw my innocent grin and stopped, grinning back at me. She also kicked me under the table, rather playfully. "I guess we could just do it another day."

"A chocolate fondue or something," I agreed.

"Izzy loves chocolate fondues," Caroline said, out of the blue, and with a tone of voice that earned her a trademark Isabel's Frozen Hell Glare. And puzzled looks from the rest of us.

"I do, too," quipped Charlie. He seemed unfazed by his sister's outburst, and so did Louisa, who just patted her hand. I looked over to Hugo, and he just shrugged at me. So I returned to my soup, and Julia started explaining our Easter tradition to Charlie, or rather to the whole table, as everyone seemed to be listening in.

Charlie managed to make her promise she'd stay with them way before desert, don't you worry.

When we emerged from the cozy restaurant, all sleepy because we had eaten too much, Isabel took a very posh camera out of her big purse and insisted on taking a picture. "For Jorge," she said, and Charlie promptly made sure we were all arranged and smiling. Louisa made Hugo take the picture, arguing that he didn't know Jorge so nobody would care.

As soon as we started moving again, Caroline made a beeline towards Louisa's car and slid in. Ack. I started towards my motorbike and, once there, watched the girls. They were in close conference by the open car door. Julia looked at me once and made a face -an encouraging one, mind you. Then they all climbed inside except Isabel. She came to stand at the other side of Cassandra and held her hand out, looking at me with what I took for pitying disapproval.

"Caro'll be fine," she stated, as I gave her my second helmet.

I felt a childish urge to kick her shins, so it was a good thing Cassandra was there between us. I hated how she always seemed to look down at everything. But I was also relieved Caroline had chosen not to ride back with me.

She got on right after I did, steadying herself with a hand on my shoulder. And then she let go, grabbing the back of her seat instead of me, her legs barely touching mine.

"The road's quite bumpy," I said, twisting in my seat to look at her.

"I'm fine," she replied, unsmiling. Alright.

I didn't have any interest in her embracing me, anyway. OK, let's say I didn't have any _special_ interest. I am healthy, straight, young and male, after all. I'm designed to like the general idea of helpless maidens clinging to me.

She did eventually, though. After the second dangerous curve, she put one slender arm across my stomach. And every time we rode on a bump, her legs clenched. Which I enjoyed a lot, going as far as-

OK, I didn't think I'd ever admit to this, but I actually tried to get her do that as much as possible. It was rather spiteful of me, was it not, to enjoy scaring her so? And making her grip my shirt only because she hadn't wanted to?

It was playfully done. I swear. She deserves it, for staring so much at me and making me think she didn't want me there. Possibly because I didn't want to be there myself, but still.

"So you are going to Carla's today?"

That was the first thing she said when we arrived, right after jumping down and shaking her long hair out of the helmet.

"Yes." I didn't feel like chatting, since she had just clearly stated she wanted me gone. Instead, I thought it was a shame such a mean girl had that hair. She took off Charlie's jacket, too. She was flushed. It was sunny, after all.

"Make sure you get there once the pig is dead, then," she said, a smile I didn't like dancing on her lips. "I have the feeling you wouldn't have the heart to eat it, otherwise."

After destroying my manly pride with one single sentence, okay, two sentences, she walked to the back of the house, looking for some shade.

I didn't follow her.

Because she was right, damn her.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: Back to classes -more or less...**

**Attached file: Turistas_en_Taüll. jpg **

_¿Qué tal, tesoro?_

I wasn't very excited at the prospect of going back to Barcelona after the holidays, but oh well. It is finally hot enough to procrastinate and lounge on the grass of the campus.

I spent half the week staring out of the window at blossoming broom –its flower is so _yellow_ -and longing to do just that. And today I had the perfect excuse. Eclogue day at last!

The hippy people in the student assembly of my Faculty apparently decided to strike in order to stop the Bologna process and the unification of all European university degrees -along with stopping Capitalism and whatnot. They also decided -since they are the only ones that ever go to the student assembly things -that we ALL should strike, and hence made it impossible for anyone to attend their classes.

I would feel outraged if it wasn't so sunny outside. Julia came up with the Eclogue Plan, that is, finding a bit of grass under a tree -preferably rubbish-free, though that proved hard -and lounging to our hearts content. Just as they had told me they did!

It was as bucolic as expected, really. You only have to turn the whispering stream into a concrete path, and grazing sheep -all distracted by singing shepherds -into students coming to and fro. Oh, and add that cottony fluff poplars make in spring –it was everywhere and made my nose itch.

So we -J, C, David, David's friend Carla and the Polish girl in our class –found a nice enough spot of grass to camp in and proceeded to procrastinate and talk about random things quite happily.

Sadly, there was no guitar at hand.

Charlie –brace youself –actually held Julia's hand for a while, both of them looking pleased and fourteen. Carla and David went over a play they are apparently staging on May 1st. David hasn't shaved since Easter at least, and his stubble begins to resemble a beard. He looked a bit like a gypsy before, but now… really. I'm sure shaving isn't that difficult. Anyway, they both had great fun saying their lines and randomly sprouting poetry verses for our benefit. The Polish girl got a pretty sonnet by Lope and I got "_más helada que nieve, Galatea_".

By now, calling me cold is like an inner joke, I think. Oh well.

Due to lack of Caro, all I could do was give conversation to the Polish girl. Who just wouldn't shut up afterward. She had to tell me ALL about her boyfriend in Poland, and how they both met at some mass, and her views on pre-marital sex.

I don't think David knows this, or else he wouldn't keep trying to charm her.

Caro is fine, by the way, and is already very interested in someone else. The lucky man is the ex of a friend of hers who is currently in Paris and has invited her to go visit. Apparently they had been e-mailing for a while, but Caro wasn't that much into him. That is, until he sent her a picture of him in his Porsche.

In her defense, I have to say - the guy doesn't look half-bad himself.

Caro says she had forgotten he was so hot and is at the moment deciding what clothes to take.

I _told_ you not to worry about her. Her pride was more hurt than her feelings, and David did very well letting her think she had fooled him. Caro is an expert on wishful thinking, and seems quite happy to believe he's stupid.

Also, and this is the last time I'll even address the subject: I do NOT like David. I do NOT have a crush on him. I do NOT even think he's handsome.

I thought we could be friends, that's all, but I've discovered at Louisa's that, while it is true he's very smart and witty, we just don't mix well. That's the end of it, no matter how much we banter (which we don't anymore) or how much he makes jokes at my expense (that are not even funny).

Understood?

So the morning was very pleasant, but I left early because I hate the poplar fluff and someone had to do the grocery shopping –Caro only buys yoghurt and fruit. I'm tired of eating out.

Oh, Charlie says he's finally asking Julia out on a TRUE date this Sant Jordi –Saint Jorge –that is, as you well know, April 23rd. My present for you is on its way, don't you fret. You know they do this special book/Valentine day here. He says he will have worked up his courage by then. Haha. Will keep you posted.

By the way, I'm growing fond of Barcelona. I like jogging up in Collserola and seeing the whole city from there, jammed between the mountain and the sea. And I'm beginning to understand spoken Catalan too, so I can watch Formula One in the autonomic TV channel. The color analysts don't like Fernando Alonso much, though. Oh, and I am completely hooked on _pa amb tomàquet_. It's kind of silly, since it's only toast with tomato rubbed on it, but still. I just can't get enough.

You asked, and I complied: I've just attached the group picture. Note Caroline is as far from David as she could get while actually appearing in the picture. Note Charlie's hand on Julia's shoulder, and Louisa's arm through hers. Isn't Julia pretty? Note, also, how David looks completely at ease although I'd swear he really wanted to be somewhere else. And note, finally, that I was wearing the shirt you bought me last Christmas. See? I still have it.

Love you,

Isabel

*******

I really don't want to write this bit.

It isn't anything embarrassing –I can do embarrassing alright, as you have seen. It's just so… annoying. Feel free to skip it if you want.

I'm not supposed to say this or ever be very explicit about how this story is written, but I think I have a cause for complaint. Isabel only has to find her e-mails and translate them, but I? No, I have to write everything down, just as I remember it happened. And with all the details, not just "Lola Colinas arrived that night and she was a pain in the ass".

It sucks.

…

I guess I'd better start, though.

I remember arriving home with Carla that evening. We had ended the Eclogue day very nicely by going to the cinema. Skipping your morning classes makes it very easy to just skip everything else, don't you think? Not that we had had any choice in the morning. So Carla didn't go to her English class and I didn't go to the swimming pool, and we went to see an American movie with lots of guns and one exploding helicopter.

Oh, yes, and in the lift I complained about how Isabel had monopolized my Polish target all morning. Carla said the girl wasn't into me anyway, and that I should just give up. I knew that, but it was easier to blame Icy Isabel.

So neither of us remembered Carla's new roomie was to arrive that day. At least until we found her in the girl's kitchen, watching as Julia fried potatoes and onion, and being not-so-subtly mocked by Dídac and Cristian.

Dídac was always popular in high-school, and so he never realizes when he should NOT laugh at people because said peoples' egos are fragile enough already.

Not that high-school in Spain is anything like the hellish places depicted in Hollywood movies. To start with, there are no cheerleaders and no jocks. But there's always cool people and not-cool-at-all people, mostly depending on their social skills and survival instincts. Kids are cruel at fourteen. Or rather, we've all been victims and bullies at that age, at least once.

Except my best mate Xavi Jardiner, who never ever bullied anyone. He was already the tallest guy of the class at twelve, and never let anyone bully anyone else. He always got into fights with older boys, and then I had to go smooth things over.

Yup, he's a great guy.

Anyway, the new girl looked like the kind of bullied kid who never got over high-school. But not the kind that use their frustration as a fuel to blossom into successful individuals. No, no. She was one of those who never understood that trying too hard is the best way to kill coolness, and keep trying to be cool while constantly complaining about how things never turn out well for them.

To all the people out there trying so hard to be in the in-crowd: Just be yourself, be nice to people and never whine again. And remember, personal hygiene is VERY important.

It wasn't that she was ugly, fat or greasy. She was average looking, on the tiny side, and had pointy features. It was her way to look at things –as if she had wanted to copy Isabel and Caroline. It was not very becoming, truth to be told. She looked like she was forever smelling old socks.

"Oh, David. Look, this is Lola. And Lola, this is Carla, your roomie." Julia made the introductions and I took over the stove. Potato omelette. Yum.

"Lola Colinas," said the new girl, flicking her hair and kissing Carla's cheeks. That's the friendly way to say hello in Spain, by the way. You kiss your friend's both cheeks. Unless you are two guys, then you are very manly and shake hands or clap each other's back.

"Mom is out with her friends," said Julia, taking off her apron and placing it around my waist. "And I thought we could have a welcome dinner. _Dídac_," she warned him.

I didn't know what he was laughing at yet, so I joined Julia in her disapproval and sent him off to buy a couple baguettes. As Julia began preparing spaghetti bolognese, I joined the small talk Carla was making with Lola.

Which was more like listening to Lola say one wrong thing after the other. Like:

"So I thought people wouldn't talk to me here because, you know, I'm Spanish, but I was surprised to discover you _do_ speak Spanish in Barcelona. I had been told you don't actually study the language in school, so… Which, by the way, I don't understand. I mean, if I moved here and had children, I'd want them to study in Spanish…"

Remember how I told you Spanish/Catalan politics might not be the wisest topic to launch when speaking with people you don't know? Well, imagine forcing your Spain-centered views on Catalan people you don't know, and telling them:

\- That you thought people there force foreingn people to speak a language they can't speak. There's stupid people everywhere, and I know for sure there're people who only ever speak Catalan, no matter what. But still, it's rare and pig-headed of them. NOT a daily occurrence.

\- That you listen to and actually believe anti-Catalan propaganda. Not good. Kids do learn Spanish in school. They just happen to study all other subjects in Catalan. They are in Catalonia, after all.

\- And that you don't think we have the right to decide which is our first official language. Not to mention our right to decide to which extent we are Spanish or Catalan.

Ouch, yes. Cristian had stopped laughing and was now glaring at her. The girls and I acted as if she hadn't said a thing. In case you were wondering, Mario was in his room, playing World of Warcraft. And Dídac wasn't back yet, thankfully.

"And I quite like the apartment, you know. It's not very sunny, but I guess our room is big enough for two. The owner is very nice, though she does talk a lot-"

"She's our mother," I cut her off, and Julia and I both smiled quite tightly at her. She flushed very much and stammered apologies for way TOO long, blowing the whole innocent –and truthful -comment out of proportion and making us wonder _what_, exactly, had been about to say next about our mom.

Then, she proceeded to tell Carla of a fruit diet that did wonders, OUCH, and when she knew we were both studying Spanish literature she started boasting because, I am not kidding, _she worked for Carlos José de Burgos_, back in Granada, and was here in Barcelona to check on some archives, bla bla bla.

Yeah, really. She talked about it for half an hour non-stop, too.

We managed to keep Christian and Dídac subdued at dinner, but they burst out laughing when the poor girl said to Mario she hated heavy metal and didn't think death could even be considered music. You'd think Mario's waist-long hair and Iron Maiden t-shirt would have alerted her. It didn't.

So maybe it's amusing now, OK, but I swear to you that dinner felt like a near-death experience. Death by suffocation. The worse bit was that it was clear she was actually very nervous, and kept babbling and giving herself airs in an attempt to please us. I told you, trying too hard. The result was a highly annoying mix of eagerness to please and self-importance which, regrettably, made her ridiculous.

Julia was the only one to bear it patiently, but it doesn't count because she is too nice for her own good. Lola Colinas felt encouraged by her and thus started trailing behind her at all times from then on. She really worshiped Julia. And I know Julia is worthy of a religious cult, but really.

Now, I'm done with talking about Lola Colinas –for some reason, I can't think of her as Lola. She doesn't look like a Lola, she looks like a Dolores. Which, in case you don't know Spanish, means "pains". I never understood how come it's so popular a name.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Fina Guillán**

**Subject: re: I'm alive**

**Attached file: Turistas_en_Taüll. jpg **

I'm glad you are fine and your boss hasn't kidnapped you or anything. I was kind of worried –you haven't even updated your Facebook status in two weeks! Bad Fina! For shame!

It's a good thing you like your job, at least. Liking your boss, dear cousin, is not so good. But give me all the details anyway.

I was hoping to hear from you –I need to talk to someone, and Charlie and Jorge won't do. You see, had I received –and answered –this mail a couple days ago, you'd have gotten a whole panegyric on this guy I've met and I kind of like.

Kind of. I'm in the process of forgetting all about him. I mean, I'll be here only for a few months, and I have no intention of falling for a guy without ambitions nor prospects (he wants to be a high-school teacher!), who lives in another city, is too charming and witty for his own good, extremely handsome...

Ring a bell? Doesn't he sound like a second Jaime Guimarán?

Though he isn't actually like Jaime at all. Meaning, Jaime is a bastard, and David cares about his sister very much. Also, he doesn't do drugs. He doesn't even smoke.

I'm just… fine, I like him. He spent three days at Louisa's with us and it was my undoing. He's… good. I think. And laughs a lot. He was very discreet about Caro liking him, and even felt guilty when he rejected her. We had some very nice, light banter over silly things. He plays the guitar and sings and I can't even begin to describe his voice. And he looked so hot first thing in the morning I thought my knees were about to give away.

But don't be alarmed. I'm in control now we are back in Barcelona, university classes and all. I've learnt my lesson, and I am rationally not interested in him. It's just a passing fancy. So don't tell Jorge, he's already suspicious and I don't want him to worry about this, about Jaime and all. I can't tell Charlie because he's head over heels with David's sister. Anyway, he always thinks the best of everyone and wouldn't get why I don't want to get involved with David.

I'm just… I would like to be able to trust people as I used to. It's sad. Call me, will you? When that boss of yours gives you a break. And I'll tell you all about Charlie, too. I'm sending you a group picture –Charlie's new love is the pretty girl with the awesome curly hair, and David is the guy at your right, leaning on the wall. Is it me or he really looks like Michelangelo's David?

I haven't just asked what you thought I asked. But answer me anyway.

I miss you.

Isa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first posted this chapter at ff.net, I tried to cajole people into reviewing, but I also explained the quotes were chosen from either Spanish Renaissance works or late medieval works in other languages that were relevant to 16th century Spain. Some of them are entirely something else, too, but well. Translations are all mine.
> 
> And again, thank you to VickyVicarious.


	5. Chapter 5

_'Doncs deia que és ric perquè no treballa, i tot el dia estrena corbates.  
I deia que és bon mosso i rumbós per... perquè ho és, i perquè totes se n'enamoren;  
i si enganya a les xicotes, que diu aquesta, és perquè elles se deixen enganyar.'_

'And so I said he's rich 'cause he doesn't work, and he's always wearing new ties.  
And I said he's handsome and openhanded becase… because he is, and so all the girls fall for him;  
and if he tricks them, as she says, it's only 'cause they let him.'

Àngel Guimerà, _La filla del mar_

_* _

_Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri,  
el movimento suo fosse dal core  
di questa bella donna, e 'l su' valore  
mostrasse la vertute a' mie' martiri_

If Mercy were kind to my desire  
and arose from the heart  
of this fair lady, and its worth  
showed virtue and hope to my agony…

Guido Cavalcanti

***

Sant Jordi Day is not a national holiday, which is a shame.

But in the afternoon, bookstores are as full as a pub at midnight, and rose stalls- oh OK. You see, Sant Jordi is Saint George. He was a saintly knight who slayed a dragon, saving a pretty princess from being its breakfast. A single red rose sprouted from all that dragon's blood, or so the legend says, and that's why boys get their girls a rose. In Catalonia, that is. Saint George is the patron saint of a dozen other countries, including England. I mean, knights, dragons, a pretty princess in distress… they _loved_ him in the Middle Ages. He was the coolest saint by far.

It's also the International Day of the Book, because both Shakespeare and Cervantes died on April 23th, except they didn't really, since when Shakespeare died they were still using the Julian calendar in England. So he actually died on our May 3rd. And Cervantes' funeral was on the 23rd, but he died the day before, I think.

Anyway. Anyway, girls buy books for their loved ones, and get to complain because they are more expensive and picking a book is not as easy as picking a red rose.

Well, in truth, everyone buys books for themselves, too, since there's a discount, and street stalls just outside the bookshops, authors signing copies everywhere… it's gotten very commercial, but since it's all about selling books, I think it's still fun.

And last Sant Jordi, Julia had a date. As in, Charlie had asked, very flustered, if she wanted to go with him, alone, to see the stalls in La Rambla. That's a very famous street that gets very crowded and very interesting on that day. Julia had said yes.

Unfortunately, Julia had also been very good to Lola Colinas, not letting Dídac and Cristian pick on her, spending time with her and such. She had been too good, in fact, because Colinas now kept following her around, not leaving her alone for one second. I mean, really, you got home, asked "Where's Julia?" and Colinas was all "Got into the bathroom three minutes ago." Creepy.

One free afternoon was very much out of the question, as you might guess. As soon as she knew Julia was going out, she insisted on going with her, too. Julia was too shy to tell her she was actually looking forward being alone with Charlie, and too modest to actually believe it was the date it obviously was. So she wouldn't say anything to her. It would have been the easiest way, wouldn't it? "Look, Lola, I have a date, I can't pretend I like you this afternoon."

Julia explained to me, patiently enough, that Lola was very insecure, lacked social skills and must have led a very lonely life so far. I said Lola should learn to make friends –and, most importantly, to keep those she had. She needed constant attention and kept doing that thing of being both ridiculously humble and terribly self-centered. And the whining, the whinning got on my nerves like anything else could. Not to mention she had views on everything, and insisted on lecturing you no matter how offensive you found it.

Yes, I didn't like her much.

But I ended up playing the martyr knight for Julia's sake. I agreed to go meet Charlie with them and then discreetly take Lola away, leaving Julia and Charlie as alone as they could be in a street that packed with people.

That was the plan, anyway. It was a big enough sacrifice as it was, wasn't it? Yet fate was against me. When we came out of the subway just at the beginning of La Rambla, and squinted around in the sun looking for Charlie, we found both Charlie and Isabel. Yay. They were saying goodbye to each other, but stopped when they realized Julia hadn't come alone, either.

"Oh my gosh, Isabel! Remember me? I work for don Carlos in Granada!" Lola practically threw herself at her in order to kiss her cheeks. Isabel stared at her, taken aback.

"Yes, I think I do. What was your name again?" I bet she knew, too. She looked like she knew exactly who Lola Colinas was and felt horrified at having found her there.

I tried not to laugh and turned to Charlie and Julia. They were standing quite close, beaming to each other and apparently planning their afternoon. "David and Lola will supposedly go their way," she was saying, in a hushed voice, and Charlie looked at me, grinned and then went,

"See, Izzy? You don't have to wander alone, you can get together with David and, er, Lola."

I would have expected her to refuse and run for her life, but instead she looked at me and frowned. As if this was my fault. She was wearing her hair high in a ponytail and the wind made it curl around her long neck.

"But, aren't we all going together?" Lola whined to Julia.

"Sure! Yes… This is Charlie…"

And so introductions were made. I didn't miss the look Isabel gave Charlie over Lola's shoulder. It plainly said, "Beware of her! Honestly, the things I do for you!"

Charlie didn't seem to get it but, to his credit, he promptly set to monopolyze Julia's attention and they soon were walking down the street together, hands casually brushing with each step. The street was packed. They had trouble advancing, and so did we. We followed them for a while, me trying to distract Lola, Lola trying to catch up with Julia, and Isabel bringing up the rear.

La Rambla is not one of my favorite streets. It apparently was very picturesque some decades back, but now it's all too turistic and has lost most of its charm. In my opinion, at least. It still has flower stalls, though, and pet stalls, and human statues. The human statue business is fun, I'll admit to that. Last year there were street musicians and performance artists, but they are all banned now because of pickpockets.

I remembered I was there with a couple of tourists, I turned to my charges and said, stopping them dead in their tracks, "Watch out and keep an eye on your belongings, OK?"

To which Lola said, "Where are they? I can't see them anymore!"

She was talking about the happy couple, not her money. They had started darting conspicuous glances at us a while ago, all giggly, so it was possible they were currently hiding from us. At least I hoped so. We looked around. They had crossed the street and were quitting La Rambla entirely, Julia waving back at me laughingly and Charlie tugging her towards a small café.

"There they are! Hey!" Lola exclaimed, waving back. As she started forward, Isabel tossed her hair and grabbed the girl by the shoulder, having suddenly lost all patience.

"Listen now, Colinas. We are going to let them go. In case you hadn't noticed, my friend needs a little privacy with your friend, and I don't think she has any objections." She glanced up to me at that, and I shrugged. No objections, no. She glared back at Lola. "So you either come with us or you go home, but stop being a pain in the ass."

OK, that was rough. I was half expecting Lola to cry, or at least to go home. She didn't. She sulked a bit and shrugged, too, consenting. Too late, I realized Isabel had created a parallel outing just then. Sure, I could say goodbye and leave, 'cause I really didn't want to spend the afternoon with two of the most annoying girls I knew. But there I was, feeling sorry for Lola, and for Isabel too. I mean, she was making the same sacrifice I had offered to do. The three of us were rather pathetic, really. So I felt I should at least show them around.

We didn't have much to talk about, except for literature. Well, and the fact that Lola lived with me and worked for Isabel's granddad. They talked about his health for a while, and then I told them my dad lived near Granada too. I don't know why I did that, because then I got invited… OK, I know, they were talking about the exquisite library the man has when I happened to mention I'm usually there in August. Lola said I could call and go have a look. The man apparently lives in this sort of hacienda and Lola is there all day, serving as a sort of secretary. Isabel said nothing, only looked up quite sharply. Not a surprise, really.

Then we talked about how Isabel is from Madrid but was studying in Salamanca and lived there with her cousin, and Lola wanted to meet that cousin, bla bla bla (that is, yadda yadda yadda). I kind of zoned out because anyway it was mostly Lola doing all the talking and I had to concentrate on navigating the street. They both kept bumping into me and it was becoming annoying. More than just talking to them, you know.

We headed back towards the Fnac, sorting the Corte Inglés' stalls –they are both big shops, and once there we thankfully decided to split and meet there ten minutes later. As soon as she got back, Lola picked up her long explanation of don Carlos's views on gay marriage (don't ask) right where she had left it. Isabel, carrying half a dozen books, didn't even look like she was listening. So I had to nod and say "Aha" in all the right places for the two of us.

I herded them towards the nearest Starbucks, where I treated them to coffee and convinced Lola to buy herself a couple of cookies, too.

You see, she doesn't talk when she is eating.

It's marvelous.

We found a bench in the sun and sat down to relax. I thought all was well and that I could relax and just listen to the silence –OK, to the traffic and the crowd and so on. Let me tell you, those are way less stressful than Lola. But then it was Isabel who tried to start a conversation.

I kid you not.

"You have cut your hair," she said.

I didn't like her reproachful tone at all. I shifted and drew a hand through the hairs at the nape of my neck. It felt weird, because my hair had reached the collar of my shirts before. Carla had cut it for me, and now the April breeze against my neck made me feel cold.

"Yes. For the play."

"Are the sideburns for the play too?"

She sounded nearly mocking, to me at least. I glanced at Lola, to see if she thought so too, but she was just looking at us curiously from behind the whipped cream in her frappuccino.

"Yes. I was supposed to wear a moustache too, but there was a shaving accident. Maybe it will grow back in a week. I rather hope not." It had to be one of those little curly moustaches, you know, and that just looks ridiculous on me. Well, on any guy, really, no matter what Carla says.

Isabel picked at her muffin. She looked like she was making this huge effort just by being there with us, buying books like the rich girl she was, drinking an almond flavoured latte and making conversation. And don't forget the blueberry muffin. It must have been torture.

"When's the play?"

"Next Thursday."

"Is it in Catalan?"

"Yes."

"Oh." She looked up, and a strand of hair in the ponytail got tangled with her long earrings. She reached up to untangle it. She had very slender and white hands.

"You look good. You were starting to look like a gypsy."

Thank you, Isabel.

I don't know what's wrong about looking like a gypsy. Not that I want to look like one, but you know. She just sounded so condescending. It irked me as much as Lola's borrowed opinions on gay marriage had.

I got up and said I wanted to check some other place where they might have a better poetry selection. Unfortunately, they thought it was a good idea, and decided to come with me.

As we strolled towards this other library, we discussed favourite genres and styles. Lola loved Naturalistic novels. They bore me to death, because they are always about women cheating their husbands and everything ends miserably for everyone. They aren't even tragic. They are just sad.

Isabel said, quite curtly, that she liked poetry in general, especially that of the Golden Age–that covers both Renaissance and Baroque–and first half of the twentieth century.

"I love the origins of fictional prose, up to Cervantes," I said, and Isabel eyed me incredulously. We were just stepping inside the library, and heading toward the interesting shelves. Lola had paused by the novelty books outside. She doesn't listen much to what other people say.

"The what?" Isabel said.

"Well, you know. Chivalric romances, mostly."

She didn't understand, that was clear. Most people don't, you see, because not many Spanish romance manuscripts have survived, and there isn't much to study on that. Catalan tradition is better, although not as good as French. But then in Spain Cervantes wrote _Don Quixote_. A masterpiece must be the best ending a genre could have, don't you think?

I just like the style. And the knights that can cut a giant in two and then die of love two pages later. It reminds me of the way I saw the world when I was six and watched Dragon Ball on TV.

I didn't try to explain this to Isabel, who went, still dead-panned,

"But they are... _boring_. And so long." She made a gesture with her hands, as if measuring a thick book.

"Maybe you aren't reading them well." Haha. Now she looked _incredulous_. In italics. She raised one eyebrow and I explained: "You see, they were meant to be read aloud…"

"I know that."

"Yes. But people didn't have to listen to the whole book… Think of the _Amadís_ as a soap-opera." The _Amadís de Gaula_ is a four-volume book on a knight, published in Spain on 1508. "You can watch one episode one day, and then another one two weeks later, and it's OK. You don't have to read it as a _real_ novel. And it does work better when you read it aloud."

"So you are telling me you like medieval soap-operas best? Of all Spanish literature?"

I grinned, but only to annoy her.

She smiled back and wandered off, and I was left to puzzle.

Ten minutes later, she was back, carrying seven new poetry books plus the half a dozen she had bought before. I was still at the same spot, leafing through the book I had wanted but couldn't buy since January or so.

It was a romance, what else, but it was the best romance in prose in the world. You will not have heard about it because it's Catalan–or rather, Valencian. It's called _Tirant lo Blanch_–Tirant the White, the name of the knight. In Cervantes' words, "_In all truth, my friend, by right of its style this is the best book in the world: here knights eat, and sleep, and write their will before dying, among other things that all the rest of books of this genre lack."_

They also fall off their horses, lust after princesses and conquer Constantinople back.

Of course I already had the book at home, but the edition I was looking at was one big volume with good glossy paper, proper footnotes, colorful pictures evoking miniature illustrations and a price I couldn't actually pay right then. Or back in January.

"Oh, pretty," she said. _Pretty_.

I closed the book and put it back in the shelf.

"Yeah. Can't buy it at the moment, though. I know myself and haven't brought enough money."

She took the book out again and searched for the price. It was fifty euros, with the discount. "Credit card?"

"Same reason. Anyway, by this time of the year I've spent too much of what I earned in the summer."

"Do you work in the summer?" She had braced the book and was looking at me with inscrutable eyes. Why did she keep doing that? It was unnerving. I guessed she didn't work at all, since her parents would surely pay for everything.

"I wait in a bar in Granada. And I tutor a few kids during the school year, so I can –what are you doing?" The end of the sentence was 'so I can buy drinks and cinema tickets or pay for motorbike repairs, not buy way-too-expensive books', but Isabel had suddenly picked both her purchases and the _Tirant_ and was heading towards the paying line.

She looked at me, clearly not taking me very seriously. "What does it look like? It should look like I'm buying you a book. Here," she said, putting all the books in my arms so she could look for her wallet.

"No, you are not. It's too expensive."

"There's a discount." She took out a credit card and raised her eyebrows at me, as if telling me to shut up.

"But you won't get the money back 'til August!" I had to protest, no matter how much I wanted the book.

She stared at me as if I was stupid. "You don't have to pay me back."

I pushed the books back into her arms. "Yes I have."

She looked seriously displeased and placed the books on the counter. She glared at the poor cashier. "Fine."

"Fine."

We got out and Lola joined us, starting to say something. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Isabel handed me my new book and said, "I'm going home."

So she had finally grown tired of hanging out, as I had been expecting.

"Me too," I said. "Lola, you coming?"

I had to buy the roses yet. I had thought I'd need three of them, for mom, Carla and Julia. And right then I realized I'd have to buy one for Lola too, so she would have at least one and not be the only rose-less girl in the flat. Well, she _had_ a rose, they give them out at the stalls when you purchase a book, but it's not the same thing, is it?

What I didn't want was feeling forced to get one for Isabel. Especially since she was suddenly moody and didn't even kiss our cheeks goodbye. I'm not sure she even _said_ goodbye, to tell you the truth.

On the way to the subway station, I bought sunflower seeds for Lola to nibble. And I got an instant message from Julia: "Tell mom I'm staying at Caro's tonight! I'm so happy!"

***

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

Subject: Big big hugs

Don't despair, love.

Yes, I know it's easy for me to say. I'm not there in goddamned Scotland, I have few problems, and I'm of age so dad can't control me. But you know he means well.

I can't say it will work out for the best, but what I can tell you is that I just bought tickets to see you again, next weekend. How does that sound?

Yes, yes, I love you too, I know I'm the best sister you could possibly have and you can't wait to see me. Just so you know, I miss you lots too. And I'm being selfish anyway. I'm kind of tired of Barcelona and the university.

I don't feel great and I'm tired, but I did go see the play and will tell you all, as asked. Only don't expect it to be sparkling with wit, or very long…

The show was held in a neighbourhood cultural center; nothing fancy and definitely nothing very big. The chairs were not exactly comfortable, either… No cobwebs, though, so I won't complain much. It was so full of friends and family people had to sit down on the floor to see the play. I went with Charlie and Julia, who I swear didn't stop holding hands all afternoon. Julia worked as a translator when we needed one, because the play was in Catalan. Still, since she had summarized it beforehand, it was quite easy to follow.

The play (_La filla del mar – The Sea's Daughter_) was about an orphan girl found in a sea village after a shipwreck. She is adopted, grows up, becomes the typical Romantic heroine, passionate to the point she was somewhat scary. She was played beautifully by a girl with a wild mane of dark hair.

David played a rake. All the girls in the village wanted him, apparently, and he tricked one after the other. When the play begins, he is secretly seeing one girl, the wild girl's step-sister, played very nicely by Carla, D's snarky friend. When it becomes public knowledge, she convinces him to woo the heroine to throw off suspicions.

Except, well, he does fall in love with her. The heroine I mean. They are very cute together except he is still seeing the step-sister and she threatens to kill him if he ever stops loving her. To which he gives his permission. Yes, they are both mad.

Anyway, she discovers the plot, he convinces her to marry and go away with him –they kind of rolled on the floor while she tried to kill/hit him and he kissed/convinced her. I know I'm not telling the story well but it was very thrilling. And then when they are about to marry, every woman in the play turns against him–the evil step-sister, the village girls and a woman he had dumped long ago and was still bitter.

He had it coming, if you ask me.

The heroine catches him being hugged by the evil step-sister and stabs him. He dies and she throws herself to the sea. And dies, too. It was all very tragic, although he was a bastard and she was scary. I mean, I kind of hated him through the play, but David did great and you could tell he was trying to redeem himself for her.

I was kind of relieved he didn't make it in the end. I must be very unfeeling, since half the audience cried. But, you know, he _was_ a bastard.

In all, good play.

I'll try and talk to dad, okay? But you know he doesn't trust my judgement much.

Love you,

Isabel.

***

"Who's this guy and how did he convince you to step into a nightclub?" Carla loves laughing at me. It is usually because I don't go out, but the fact that I _was_ going out that night wasn't going to stop her.

"I do venture into clubs. Once a month, yes, but the theatre parties make up for it, don't they?" You know, the ones after rehearsal. We go out each Friday, so really. How much partying can one guy do?

I was using the girl's bathroom, as usual. I was actually trying to shave, but Carla kept looking at me from the doorframe.

"Do _not_ shave the sideburns," she snapped, when the razor slid too close. "You need them for our next performance."

"But they _itch_. Anyway, you know Jaime. He's the tall guy Elena is seeing. You know, the one I told you Bitter Bitch tried to kill with a glare."

"Oh, the one that looks like a walking cologne ad!"

Yeah, you could say it like that.

We had met Jaime after the show, when he came back to greet and congratulate us. He had been invited by Elena, the girl playing the heroine, since they were kind of going out. Elena is striving to be a professional actress, and had met him at the _Institut del Teatre_. I take it you don't need a translation.

Barcelona is the European city with the highest density of professional actors, you know. My company is amateur, but we are registered and all so we have a license and can go to contests and such. We don't do that anymore, since we are all finishing university and starting to work, but it was nice. What we still do is a series of performances in four or five small towns, paid by the town council. Being the beginning of the summer and doing a very Catalan play, we did have a busy July planned.

OK, back to the story… Jaime had warmly congratulated us all and, since he was so easy-going, I liked him from the start. He had handsome, intense features, blue eyes and black wavy hair like Marlon Brando. All the girls were quite giggly around him, but you can't blame a fellow for that.

It was his nonchalance that charmed me, and the fact he looked very comfortable talking to the perfect stranger I was. I was still high on adrenaline, and I guess that helped to the feeling of mutual understanding, but in no time at all we were chatting and laughing rather loudly in the middle of the crowd that had formed outside the changing room. People like seeing friends or relatives on stage and they all look for you afterwards to tell you how well you did. Yes, it feels great. While talking with Jaime, I highfived Dídac and Cristian, shook hands with Mario, was squeezed by my mother and kissed on still made-up cheeks by a couple of girl friends.

And then Charlie and Julia popped out of nowhere, Isabel in tow. I wasn't expecting to see her there. Unlike my sister's and her boyfriend's, her eyes weren't red-rimmed, but for a second I thought she glowed with contentment and a hint of admiration. Her cheeks were rosy and her dark eyes were bright, but the moment she took me and Jaime in, her face shuttered and the feeling was gone.

While I was hugged by Julia and carefully patted on the back by Charlie –my shirt was still soaked with false blood–I watched Isabel grow pale, then red high in the cheeks, and stab Jaime with the most venomous glare I had ever seen. He was pale, too, but held his chin high and didn't even flinch.

Julia had asked me if I needed a ride home or something like that, so I had to look at her to say we still had to put everything back in order, and then we planned on celebrating over _tapas_ and rum with cola.

When I looked again, Isabel was gone.

Jaime, since he was Elena's current affair, stayed and helped us tidy the theater. He made the kind of jokes that are so easy to follow up they just keep going until the conversation makes no sense anymore and you are laughing so hard you can hardly breathe. Then he came with us to celebrate, of course, and we bonded definitely over a plate of _polbo á feira_. I went away with my head full of him.

And of course, since we had somehow become best pals through the night, he went away with my cellphone number and instructions to find me on Facebook. And so he had called, after a witty exchange through the site, and said he and Elena had had a fallout and if I wanted to do something on Saturday night.

By the way, I checked on him and Isabel, and he wasn't friends with her on Facebook. Still, he did have a picture, among the hundreds in his profile, in which he was with her on a beach, both of them looking cold and slightly younger. His hair was shorter, her face was rounder, and he had an arm across her shoulders. They looked as if they had been strolling down the beach in midwinter and the photographer had called at them from behind. He was smiling. She was not.

I think I got very side-tracked here, since I actually started with me shaving and talking with Carla. I truly don't know how to go back to that, so I'll just drop it. Jaime Guimarán and I were friends, and went out together that night.

***

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jaime Guimarán**

**Subject: Re: ** _ **Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri...** _

How dare you.

You bastard. You depraved, spiteful, venomous bastard.

So you've run out of money, haven't you? What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish by emailing me? Did you think you could seduce me? Have me wrapped around your little finger again?

Nice try, looks like you put a lot of effort. Asking about Jorge. Begging forgiveness. Quoting Cavalcanti, no less. And you miss me so much.

I'll make this as clear as it can be: Stay away from me. I don't want to see your face again. _You_ don't want me to see you again. So stay clear from my university and my friends.

If you ever try this again, I'll make sure you feel truly sorry.

Isabel, 'that frigid little bitch'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's beta was HLBr, author of the incredible Not Every Gentleman. If you haven't read that one, you don't know what you are missing. As always, though, all the mistakes left are all mine.
> 
> The quotes for this chapter were from the theatre play (re: the character David played) and part of the sonnet by Cavalcanti Jaime quotes to Izzy.


	6. Chapter 6

_E girà's de l'altra part de vergonya que no gosà mirar a Diafebus en la cara,  
e no li pogué eixir altra paraula de la boca sinó que dix: -Jo ame._

'And [Tirant] turned the other way, so ashamed he didn't dare to look at Diafebus's face,  
and he couldn't get out another word except, "I love."'

Joanot Martorell, _Tirant lo Blanch_, ch. CXVIII

 

_venturoso fueras, Zaide,  
si conservarme supieras  
como supisme obligarme._

'Lucky you'd be, Zaide,  
should you know how to keep me  
like you knew how to win me.'

Lope de Vega, _Romance de la mora Zaida_

_   
_

"I'm offishially drunk," I said, leaning on Jaime as we stepped out of the nightclub. I stopped to breathe the heavenly crisp air of the street and he nearly tripped on me. The music from the inside grew faint as the door closed and we started walking up the street.

"Need a cigarette," he said, letting me go and fumbling through his pockets. I walked a bit further, leaned on the wall and slid down 'til I was sitting in the dark doorway of a closed club. The nightclub streets around Marina are somewhat sordid, so I'm sure the pavement was nowhere near clean. I didn't care. I closed my eyes and relaxed, enjoying the relative silence. I heard Jaime light his cigarette and drop down next to me.

It was half past four in the morning, and inside the partying was in full swing. I was at that point you reach when you have stopped drinking a while ago and can feel the dizziness evaporating to give room to the queasiness. My plan was to stay awake until I only had a headache, then sleep 'til early afternoon.

I'm not reckless when going out. I don't do drugs or sex with strangers, and I try not to drink too much. I was never one to do things on the spur of the moment and regardless of consequences, and I like to think that, all in all, I have more fun this way.

I do feel better the next morning, at least.

So for your information, I had three Cuba Libres, found out Dídac and Cristian were there too, invited them and Jaime to a round of tequila shots, danced until I hurt all over, stumbled on a guy sniffing something and on an extremely indiscreet couple in the toilets, and was randomly kissed to an inch of my life by a girl in a leather miniskirt that hooked up with Dídac right after letting me go.

The wonders of having a handsome cousin.

"Shame about the miniskirt girl," Jaime slurred. He had apparently been thinking about the same incident. "Wouldn't have taken it badly if you had left with her."

"Naaah… Not int'rested. Much."

"Why? She wasn't half-bad," he said, running a hand through his hair . I shrugged.

"Not into that short of thing. I'd rather have a girl of my own. And what kind of girl wearsh a leather minishkirt anyway…"

"Oooh, idealistic, are we? A true romantic, you are." He elbowed me, and I was glad to determine I wasn't drunk enough to be knocked over or anything like that.

"Guess sho."

"Been there, done that… It's a hard life. But I miss feeling like that."

I turned my head to him, or rather, I let my head fall to the side until I was looking at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We were silent for a while, musing on the difficulties of being a sensitive guy. I mean, girls are complicated. And they always like the fictional characters better, it's a fact. They go on and on about romantic things and such but wouldn't know a real man when they see him, they are so in love with Edward Cullen or Fox Mulder or James Bond or whoever they _can't_ have. No wonder, really. Real guys have handicaps, like body fat, exes and character faults. Real girls come with all that, too, but they tend to forget that bit.

After a while, he drawled, "Are you friends with Isabel Díaz?"

I snorted, forgetting all about my inner rant. "Doesh she even _have_ friends?"

He smiled at me appreciatively and shrugged. "What is she doing here?"

"Erashmus. Well, Sheneca. We're in one clash together." In case you haven't noticed, I can't pronounce my esses when drunk, at least not until I'm no longer dizzy. It starts even before the inability to walk straight, so I always sound drunker than I actually am. It's disconcerting.

And, in case you were wondering, Seneca is the program to go study somewhere else inside Spain, opposed to Erasmus, which is about going to another European country.

Jaime said nothing, apparently deep in thought, so I explained further, "Charlie is dating my shister. You know Charlie too?"

"Yeah." He paused, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. "Great guy, isn't he?"

"The only one patient enough to shtand her, I think. I mean Ijabel." Jaime laughed at that, but he sounded subdued, and so I clasped him by the shoulders with one arm. "Shpill it, man."

The lamplights made our skin glow yellow, and shadows seem darker. The contrast made Jaime's profile look intense, and also very sad. "I think we could safely say," he leaned back into the shadows of the doorway, and I couldn't make out his face, "that she's the woman of my life."

Wow. OK.

"What do you mean?"

"We went out, back when I was going to be an architect."

"You two _dated_?" I asked, all bewildered, but I could easily have asked 'An _architect_?' in the same tone of voice.

"You know the _stilnovisti_? Or the troubadours themselves. How their lady is all that and they can only hope to serve her and be eventually rewarded? It was like that."

I knew, of course. Knights and poets and Dante and Ausiàs March. I knew. So I nodded, fascinated by these images. Isabel as a merciless lady? Jaime, victim of unrequited love? It suited them. It suited them a lot.

But he seemed to have no energy left, and didn't go on at first. I had to poke him with, "And what happened?"

To which he answered, "No, look, David, I don't want to drag you into this. I don't… I don't want to harm her in any way, and I don't think I'll be able to speak of it as coldly as I'd like. And you are to see her in class, so…"

"Aww, come on," I said, passing an arm across his shoulder again and drawing him forward until he was back under the yellow light. "I'm your friend. And I won't tell."

He hugged his own knees and looked at me, so I could only see half of his face.

"You're the man, David."

He sounded better already. I smiled smugly at him and let him go, turning so I could face him.

"Our mothers were friends," he began. "My mother actually worked for don Carlos, you know, Izzy's granddad, until a short while ago. So we grew up together, and I was, well, part of the family. Don Carlos even paid for my private university at first, you know."

"And you studied Architecture?"

"Yes. I've always had a soft spot for Isabel, even back when we were kids, and… well, we did date. For four years and two months."

He was suddenly restless, letting go of his legs and sitting upright.

"I was crazy about her, you know? I'd have done anything, _anything_ for her. And I did–but it was never enough."

"But, four years… I'm sure she must have -"

"-loved me?" He cut me. He wasn't looking at me anymore, the intense look stronger than ever. "I don't know. I truly don't know. I don't think she knows what it is to love passionately, but it's not her fault. I'm sure she cared for me, but… you know her. She's so… cold."

Ah, yes. A _belle dame sans mercy_, logically. I even found it hard to believe that she could have cared about him in any way, to tell you the truth. His trying to make me not think badly of her had the contrary effect, and at the time, I doubted he realized that.

"And, well, it was alright with me at first. She was younger, and I knew she liked me, and everything was great. But, after two years… I don't know how to say this without sounding… without sounding bad.

"OK, the troubadour's _reward_? I was still waiting. She was eighteen then and moving to Salamanca because of the university there and all, while I stayed in Madrid. And with the only seeing each other once a week and all—she's possessive. She finally consented to, you know. Sex. But-

"But it was as if… I don't know what I had been expecting, but the thing is, she was as cold as ever, even making love, and it was then I realized, with the long-distance and the… I saw then she would never love me."

"Oh boy."

He was wringing his hands, still restless. He had all my sympathy, because I knew that _that_ had to hurt. One thing is to be rejected directly, and another, well, realizing two years later that you never got the girl at all.

"I was… it was still OK. It wasn't—it wasn't her fault, but she could never loosen up and enjoy herself. I felt disappointed, as harsh as it sounds, and I know it sounds terrible. I _felt_ terrible. But you have no idea how it was—being with a girl who seemed unable to enjoy—to enjoy being with _me_. She must have known, because she became paranoid. She was always suspicious I was cheating on her, and since we lived in different cities… well. I swear I'd never-"

"Of coursh not!"

He smiled at me, all relieved, and nodded. "Exactly. I loved her. And I begged every time she dumped me, and I was so happy when she came back to me, and so on. But it wasn't healthy. It wasn't… I couldn't feel fulfilled like that, you know? Not so much because of the lack of sex, but because she just wouldn't trust me, no matter what I did. I felt awful with myself, always kind of beneath her, you know? So the fifth time she said she didn't want to see me again… I just let her. It killed me, but I let her be. I thought it was the best for both of us.

"And she has never forgiven me that. She put everyone against me. Her family, my mother, our friends. And then, don Carlos wouldn't pay for my university any more, and so… that's why I'm here now. The good thing is, I realized I didn't want to be an architect after all. I moved here, and tried to get over the past… But here she is now. She won't let me forget her… Not that I could."

He leaned back into the shadows, relaxing, but I knew he was looking at me. I was kind of overwhelmed with information, and just kept nodding a bit longer. So Isabel was what I had suspected—icy, frigid, bitter and unable to value a love as sincere as Jaime's. Poor man. I couldn't help but feel for him as I felt for all those knights I read about—except I rather hoped he'd find some other lady to pay court to, a more deserving girl that could really love him.

"Hey, come on. Lemme treat you to _churros_, OK? Let's walk down to the beach!" I didn't want the blues to settle on us, so I jumped up and dragged him upright. I don't know what it is about _churros_ that makes them the best thing to eat after a party, but every time I go out I end up craving them. It was nearly five, so the stand would be open and crowded, and we resumed our stroll towards the start of the street, hands in our pockets, both still thinking on what had been said.

Halfway there, though, he said, "You won't tell her I'm with Elena now, will you? Or Charlie. I don't want any problems with them, really."

"I barely speak with her as it is, and don't plan on making conversation with her now, knowing what happened."

"And I don't want to make her nervous or mess with any friendship she might have formed... she's not dating anyone, is she?"

"No, no. Hey, relax, she can't get to you. You'll be fine as soon as you patch things up with Elena, so. Have you tried flowers?"

He hadn't, because he found it was too close to begging and insisted he hadn't done anything wrong, so we ate our _churros_, watched the sun rise from the port and devised a reconquest plan for him.

***

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Fina Guillán, Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: re: Jorge's List**

I can't believe you two. My own brother and cousin, conspiring against me!

You made me laugh a lot, though. So much, C and Ju poked their heads into my room to see what was happening, and to check I was breathing and wouldn't suffocate. Couldn't show them your lists, though, so they might still think I'm not right in the head.

You two are very sweet, even when you go completely wrong. So, for the sake of your tranquillity of mind, I'll reply to your fanciful counselling…

Against Jorge's  _ 5 reasons you should give David the time of the day: _

_1) he's not afraid of you and won't let you scare him off_ What is that supposed to mean? I don't scare boys off. I'm just very clear about not being interested in them. And if someone can't deal with my saying what I think, we wouldn't be that great a match.

_2) he's good to his sister, so he'll be good to you_ Sweet, but not really valid. I'm sure nazis were very nice to their families. You know what I mean.

_3) you can talk about literature and things like that with him_ I can talk about that with Lola Colinas, too, and I won't give her _the time of the day_, will I?

Yes, I made you shudder on purpose.

_4) he can play the guitar, that makes him a good guy in my book_ You really didn't know what to write here, did you? You do play better than him, anyway, so I guess that makes you better company.

_5) he's not like Jaime._ Ay, Jorge. I know. Jaime has nothing to do with this, really. It's not like he has scarred me for life or anything like that! I just don't think David suits me. But thank you for worrying, _tesoro_.

Against Fina's  _ Five Reasons Why You Should Do It (With David) _

_One – Because you know you want to. Hello, Michelangelo's David? Hah! You are either blind or smitten, dearie. Though I have to say he's cute. Reminds me of the boy in Gremlins. But you did like that one, when we were kids…That explains it all._ Zach Galligan! You are kind of right, too. But I'm sticking to Michelangelo's. It wasn't such a good picture of him, you know, so you'll have to trust my word.

_Two – Because he's a smartass, just like you._ Again, what is that supposed to mean? Coming from top-of-her-class and pushiest-lawyer-ever Fina Guillán, too.

_Three – Because he's laid back, unlike you. I like his smile. You need someone to tell you when to stop worrying and working and controlling, and make you have fun. Speaking of having fun, you need some action. You know what I mean. Some ACTION. So jump the man already._ I've got you for that already. For telling me off, I mean, silly. The ACTION bit is none of your business, much less Jorge's.

_Four – Did I read it correctly in your last e-mail? Did you write 'sideburns'? Hah, you are so done for. You can't resist sideburns since we saw the BBC Pride and Prejudice thing. The motorcycle is a nice touch, too. Does he have a leather jacket?_ He doesn't. Anyway, I never denied I find him attractive. But him being my eye-candy doesn't mean I have to do something about it, sorry.

_Five – Hello, a guy who didn't fall for Caro and her Barbie looks? And rejected her nicely? Yes, yes, Jorge told me about that. He IS a decent guy, why won't you give him a chance?_ I know he's nice, that's not the point! I just don't think we'd do well together, he's not really my type, I don't want another long distance relationship, I can't see myself with him in the future!

I'm not good at this. I ended both of your lists on a serious note! Unforgivable!

Oh well. I know you love me anyway. And here comes my own absurd list…

Ten Reasons Why Isabel Won't 'Jump' David, as Fina so delicately put it

\- He lives in Barcelona, and I'll be in Madrid or Salamanca or Granada next year. That is, if I don't go do a master somewhere else in Europe.

\- We don't have even remotely similar views on important things, like politics. I'm sure he's one of those Catalan separatists. Oh, and he's friends with the hippies in those Student Assembly that keep organizing strikes. Agh.

\- As Fina said, he's a smartass. He always wants to have the last word, I've noticed in class. He's the most annoying know-it-all sometimes.

\- He has no prospects at all! A highschool teacher, really! He's intelligent, he could be anything he wanted. But he's too lazy for that, I think, so he'll just stick to a relatively-easy to get government job and live unchallenged ever after. Not to mention poor.

\- He is either clueless or playing hard to get. I don't feel like making an effort in this, really.

\- He has the WORST taste in friends. The Carla girl is alright, I guess, but the rest are awful, and very rude. Or slimy gits. Not to mention his cousin thinks he's God's gift to womankind.

\- Just when I had started liking his hair, he cut it down. I'm not sure the sideburns make up for it.

\- He's an amateur actor. It might be a Jaime side-effect, but I don't trust actors. I don't care if it's silly, or too guarded, or whatever. I don't like actors and I think make-up is the biggest turn-off after thongs.

\- I think he's obsessed with stripes. He has more than half a dozen striped t-shirts, not to mention oxford shirts, jumpers, socks, scarves. He has all kinds, too –thin stripes, wide stripes, pinstripe. And in all colours: black and white, green and orange, white and navy blue, hippy-rainbowy combinations, serious-looking brown and blue, etc. His costume in the play? Included a striped vest.

\- I have yet to see him wearing normal, honest shoes. I've seen trainers, converse, doc martens, trekking boots, even sandals. But true, leather, serious shoes? Nope. I think details like this are _very_ important.

Oh, I need to go. I promised to go to the cinema and give C and Ju a little privacy.

Reply soon, you blood traitors!

Love you,

Izzy.

***

I don't know when did this happen exactly. It must have been early June, possibly right before the free week previous to exams, because it was late at night and there I was, dunking María cookies in Cola-cao and watching _Cuarto Milenio_ in the girl's living-room.

María cookies are, well, very simple biscuits. I like to make butter sandwiches with them to dunk in Cola-cao, which is a cocoa powder you drink with milk. And _Cuarto Milenio_ is a TV program on mysteries and paranormal things and cryptozoology, and I was at the girl's because Mario was hosting a Vampire role-playing game at home.

Can I continue now? Yes? Good. You are all very patient. I could just say I was dipping Oreos and watching Saturday Night Live, but you know, I would feel as if I lived in a Simpsons' episode or something. And anyway, it was Sunday.

Mom had retired to her bedroom, to watch her soap operas. She thinks _Cuarto Milenio_'s too scary, so Carla watches it devotedly. No wonder, really. My mom had made salad for dinner and didn't let the girls take seconds, because she said they needed to loose weight. Then, after dinner, she was all,

"Oh, really, I'm so glad Julia has caught such a handsome, rich boyfriend! Now, girls, you can't surely aspire that high, but I'm sure you'll be very lucky too, given time."

That was right before Carla switched channels. Mom went, accordingly, "How can you watch these things, I do not know! I'm sure I could never, I'd be a nervous wreck!"

Mom works in the public administration. Practically anything that doesn't involve coffee breaks, application forms or lounging makes her a nervous wreck. Occupational hazards, I guess...

Anyhow, she wandered off, exclaiming at our tastes, and we got the biscuits and the Cola-cao out. Lola sat right next too me, quite too close for comfort. It was something she used to do to Julia before Sant Jordi, but since Julia wasn't around much now, I had guessed she just switched siblings.

I didn't let her trail after me, though, so I have no idea how she managed.

So she sat right next to me during all the Mokele-mbembe documentary, watching Carla and I eat. Lola did believe mom when she told her she was too fat, which was ridiculous. She never ate any sweets, and I was half-expecting her to start fainting any day due to not having had breakfast at all—or something like that.

As commercials started, Carla muted the TV. "Where _is_ Julia? Has she forgotten all about us?" She said, first stretching and then slouching on her armchair.

"Ah, the advantages of getting a boyfriend that doesn't live with his parents," I said. I didn't care much that Julia wasn't around, since I knew she was very happy.

"I wouldn't care for that at all if I had a boyfriend," stated Lola, looking at me in a way that made me paste my eyes to the TV screen. "I'd be a very good girlfriend, you know? In fact, I would even be able to get him a job working for don Carlos José de Burgos and-""

She never got to finish the sentence, because, as she talked, she slid her fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck and I jumped to my feet, cutting her off.

I mean, what would _you_ have done?

"That is, if he was into poetry, don't you think?" I asked, hurriedly gathering the food in my arms as if I had stood to take everything back into the kitchen. I was expecting some help from Carla, but when I peeped at her she only stared at me very serenely and said,

"I'm sure you'd be great, love."

I was escaping to the kitchen when Lola added, rather desperately,

"And I love oral sex!"

She said that, I swear. I have never been so glad to hear Julia's keys in the lock –I had reached the kitchen and was currently considering hiding under the counter.

"Good night everyone!" She said, passing the kitchen's doorway and jumping on the sofa. "How was your day?"

"Not bad," said Carla, but Lola didn't answer. I didn't dare go out, and I hesitated a few seconds, carton of milk in hand, until I heard them talk again and felt safe enough to go out of my hiding place. Julia was seated between Lola and my corner, thank the Lord.

"Ah, here's my David," said Julia, snuggling under my arm as soon as I sat down. One would think she had enough cuddling now she was going out with Charlie, but no, Julia could never tire of hugging. "You will go to the San Juan party Charlie's throwing, right?"

Lola didn't look at me, yet Carla stared, making me even more uncomfortable than I already was.

"Um, yes?"

"Good, 'cause everyone's invited and the girls already confirmed this morning." I think she smiled at Lola at that, because the girl smiled tightly to the vicinity of my shoulder.

Carla was still glaring at me. I raised my eyebrows, but she raised hers back. Damn, she's good with her eyebrows. I felt guiltier than I had ever felt, except that one time I was nine and stole a chewing gum in the shop around the corner.

Well, OK, I'm exaggerating, I didn't feel THAT bad, but you know what I mean.

So I asked, to Julia's horror, "What were you saying about don Carlos, Lola?"

She brightened up immediately and got all started,

"He's the most generous man! And so wise, too! I am very proud to be learning from him, and I know anyone else in my position would feel the same way. He often invites me to dinner, you know, at his home. Such an elegant home, too. It has a garden, and a swimming pool, and the living-room is at least three times this one, and..."

"Oh, Lola, look, they are back!" Julia propped herself up and Carla raised the volume of the TV, effectively drowning Lola's brief protest. They were talking about Ted Bundy, and Lola is a fanatic of serial killers.

I know what you are thinking. She is creepy, yes. And, let me remind you, Julia shared a bedroom with her at that time. AND I was starting to think she liked me.

I should never have gotten her that rose.

Fifteen minutes later, when the commercials came back with a revenge—why on earth are the commercial pauses so long after midnight?—Julia had fallen asleep on my arm, and Lola continued talking as if she had never been stopped, very much in her fashion. I was saved by my cellphone buzzing in my pocket, and I disentangled myself from Julia. I practically ran to the kitchen and left poor Carla alone with Lola's monologue.

It was her fault I got her started, anyway.

It was Jaime calling. He said he was in the lower half of _Passeig de Gràcia_, and that Elena and him were definitely over and couldn't I go get a drink with him or something. I could, of course, 'cause I'm that kind of friend. And I Jaime and I had grown very close. We were always exchanging messages, and every time we met we shared confidences.

For instance, since that conversation with him, Isabel and I had barely crossed two words again. She still glared at me, harder than before or so I thought. She sat right behind me in class, and sometimes I could feel her eyes on the back of my head. Especially when I was talking. But the smallest movement made away with the sensation, and I was never quite sure I wasn't just imagining it.

And once, about a week after the Big Revelation, she talked to me to say, "Are you friends with Jaime Guimarán?"

To which I said, "Yes," quite archly in my opinion.

She only scoffed at me. I didn't even earn a Glare of Frozen Death, but she did seem to be reserving those for the nape of my neck.

I went back to the living-room and started looking for my trainers. "I'll go out for a while now. Jaime just called."

"You are going?" Lola half-pouted at me, and Carla didn't look very pleased. She hates it when I'm with her and leave to meet some other friend.

"Yes?" I hopped to the door, still pushing one feet into a shoe, and Lola followed my progress with her eyes.

"I never met that Jaime, but don Carlos dislikes him so much. I don't think you should go," and, as she saw I was still hopping to the door, she added "Don't go... pweeease."

I had reached the door and turned to look at her. She was pouting, making doe eyes and fingering one loose strand of hair. All at the same time, and it was all directed at me.

I bolted and _ran_ down the stairs. When I reached the street, I tried to feel guilty—and failed.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: Guess what? I'm stressed**

_¡Hola, tesoro!_

It's annoying. Not only I have to study—it's, after all, my job—but it's sunny and hot outside, and I'm just dying to go to the beach, do nothing all day except taking showers and have cold drinks at all times. At least it's cold in Scotland—I bet it's the first time you are grateful for that.

The campus is too full and stressful at this time of the year, so I stay in the apartment's terrace. C pushed the big table under the awning and we usually study there with a bucket of ice full of Coca-cola zero and pineapple juice.

Julia isn't around as much as before—she says she can't concentrate when she's with C. It's true, you know. They kept playing with the ice in the bucket and no-one could get anything done. He's not very happy about it, though, and I don't think he actually understands her reasons, so this last week he's been all restless and doesn't let me concentrate anyway. Ie., he was really happy today because they were going to the cinema this afternoon (that is, now) and came up with lots of ideas for San Juan. He of course had to share them with me, and I am now behind my schedule and hoping Ju'll reassure him and let the rest of us study in peace.

Caro's back. My guess is that Charlie said _party_ and she started packing right away. She's organizing it and inviting people she met at the tennis club in March and successfully spending inordinate amounts of time sunbathing. I can't sunbathe, I lay down and start obsessing with the books I have yet to read. It's not that the classes are very demanding, it's me, I know. And I have too many subjects this semester. Eight! Four exams to go. But at least I'm graduating, so never mind if I end up hating Russian formalism.

I finished the term paper on Petrarch! I handed it in yesterday at University, and then realized I could have sent it by e-mail. Or so David said. We met outside the professor's office, waiting in line. It was revision day for another subject, or so he told me. He also said he could hand my paper in for me. It went like this:

D: You can just give it to me and I'll hand it in if you are in a hurry. I need to speak with him anyway.

I: Yes, right. Like I'd trust you with my paper.

D: (raises eyebrows)

I: (JOKING) We are _competing_. I can't trust you.

D: (rolls eyes and puts on his earplugs).

And he didn't talk to me again in the following seventeen minutes—the whole waiting around bit, that is. Not that I tried to talk to him after that. He's such a git sometimes.

I NEED to go and finish _Cien años de soledad_ before Charlie comes back and tells me about the movie and everything Julia said and didn't say and whatnot. Good luck with your exams! Don't worry about maths, you'll be fine.

Love you!

Isabel

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beta-read was promptly done by HLBr. Any mistakes or delays are entirely my fault, as usually, 'cause she's great.


	7. Chapter 7

_Ab los peus verds, los ulls e celles negres,  
pennatge blanc, he vista una garsa,  
sola, sens par, de les altres esparsa,  
que del mirar mos ulls resten alegres_

'Of green feet, black eyes and eyebrows  
and white crest, I've seen a heron,  
so alone, unmatched and peerless,  
that from seeing her my eyes rest merry.'

Joan Roís de Corella,_ Balada de la garsa i l'esmerla_

 

_   
_

I had actually been looking forward to San Juan. After all, it was Charlie's party, and Charlie was a great guy. It was nearly holidays; there would be girls and my friends and fireworks... I like fireworks, but I'm crazy about firecrackers. I enjoy them now even more than I did when I was eleven or twelve. I was really into them back then, maybe because they made Julia nervous. We haven't always gotten on so well, you know.

So I was still at home, playing ProEvolution Soccer '07 on Dídac's Playstation. With Cristian, since Dídac had deserted us to shower before the event. That had been about one hour before, and we were still there, playing Spain against South Korea. I don't know how many copies of the game they sell in Korea but let me tell you, their team is better in the game than in real life. _Much_ better.

It was the fourth time we played the match—because they kept winning—and were finally 2-1 when Carla came in, asking for Cristian's hair mousse. He went to find it, not grumbling—because he's in fact quite nice—, and Carla settled to watch me as I tried to keep Park Ji from scoring.

"Do be nice to Lola this time, David."

I pushed pause. I mean—

"Excuse me? When have I not been nice to her?"

"All the time?" She raised her eyebrows, as if the answer was pretty obvious. "No? OK, what about this whole last month?"

"I'm busy and unavailable, not mean! Besides, she's creepy and I... Hey, man."

In came Dídac, holding the shirt I had mom iron for me. That is, my black linen shirt. My favourite.

"Can you lend this one to me?"

"You should confront her," insisted Carla, crossing her arms and not looking near patient enough to deal with Dídac. They really don't like each other. I suspected that she intended to wait until he left to get started with a 'treat Lola well' lecture. No way I was going to let her do that, really. So I got up and maneuvered towards the corridor door, taking my cousin with me.

"That's the one I will be wearing. You can have the striped green-"

"No, see, it's for Mario, he won't wear anything that's not black, and he only has Metallica t-shirts and things with skulls. And I don't want to lend him one of mine."

"Well, I don't see why you should dress him in David's shirts then-" The annoyed undertone in Carla's voice got unmistakable.

I cut her off with, "How did you make him let you in his room, anyway?"

"Here's the mousse. Who's next in the shower?" Cristian was back and tossed the container to Carla before wandering to the kitchen.

"I am," I said.

"I tricked him. Can I have this shi—wow."

What had made Dídac stop mid-sentence—or rather, who—was Julia, hurrying in barefoot, her hair wrapped in a towel and wearing a short black dress. She didn't take any notice os us, and just crouched next to the sofa to conference with Carla.

Black looks dramatic on her, though she hardly ever wears it. She's more into sunny colors. And long skirts. Not minidresses that leave her back exposed. This one did. She was now showing it to Carla, clearly worried it was too much. Carla shook her head. Julia grimaced. They whispered.

"Do not discuss bras in front of these two," I warned. They had been speaking too low for us to hear, but the 'unhooking bra's clasp' gesture Carla was making was quite enlightening. "They get all excited and pee in their beds at night."

"You are OK, you don't need one," quipped Dídac.

Cristian coughed, blushing a bit—really...—and nodded. "Though it's a bit..."

"Short," I finished.

"Ngh," Cristian said, and I think none of us got if he agreed or disagreed with me.

"I know! It didn't seem this short in the shop. Should I wear tights?" Julia was now modestly modelling for the five of us—Mario had come out of his room, either to request my shirt or to make me not lend it to Dídac.

"Yes."

"No."

"No."

"If you want to."

"As long as you don't wear a bra."

That last one was Dídac. Carla hurled the remote control at him.

"Okay, I'm wearing tights." She started towards the entrance door. She padded back to us and stopped by the sofa. "Maybe not. Charlie is going away in a week."

Ah.

My sister has a thing about people leaving. It has to do, I suspect, with my dad moving to Granada when we were small.

Carla jumped up and offered to help her, and while I was trying to decide if I should follow them, or get into the shower, or lend my shirt to Mario, or ban Dídac from my closet, my cellphone buzzed.

"Hey," I said, picking up. He hung up.

It was Jaime; he's always short of money. He usually nudged me until I called him from home or whatever, but I was so distracted I didn't recall until he hung up on me.

I went towards the house phone—which is in the living room too, yes. Dídac was cajoling Mario into using hair conditioner. Apparently I had missed my turn at the shower. My flatmates are like that.

"Hey, man, sorry. I was distracted."

"Hey. Are you in the party already?"

"No, no. It doesn't start for a while yet. Where are we to meet, by the way?"

"Listen, about that. The Dominican girl I told you about just called me—I think she might keep me busy all night. Is that OK with you?"

"Oh." I don't know how did Jaime do it, he was always with one girl or another. It must be the being handsome thing; I'm told it makes a difference. "No, it's alright."

I had thought I'd only be at Charlie's until three or so, and then I could leave everyone there except maybe Dídac and Cristian and go somewhere else with Jaime. But apparently it was Charlie's or nothing.

And I had to be nice to Lola.

"Thanks, mate. I'll call you, 'kay? Be bad tonight."

"Yeah..."

"Oh, and hey. Keep an eye on Isabel for me."

"Yeah, yeah, goodbye."

I really didn't want to do that, you know. I'd be happy never to see Isabel again, for she had done the most dreadful of things. Besides dumping Jaime.

She had gotten the highest score in both the exam and the paper. I'm talking of Renaissance Poetry here. And Professor Quesada had only shrugged and smiled at me as if it was funny, and said, "I can only give one top mark, boy."

You know what I call that? I call it nepotism.

Anyway, I would keep an eye on her for Jaime's sake, but I wasn't so sure I'd tell him if Isabel started making out with one boy after another.

Ah no, wait. Frigid.

It'd be an easy job, at least.

***

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Fina Guillán**

**Subject: Yes, I'm hiding in my room to write to you**

I can't stand parties. You know I'm serious—I've never liked them, not even my own birthday parties, and you've been to all of them. So I don't see how you could think that hosting one would reconcile me with their stupidity.

Too many people, to start with, none of which—except C, Caro and I guess Julia—are even half-friends of mine. And everyone's too loud. I mean, if it was a dinner, or some event in which people wouldn't feel the need to intoxicate themselves and throw up in my bathroom—which has not happened yet but it's bound too happen soon—, if it was a dinner, as I was saying, I could play the host and not feel pressured to have fun. I could be busy doing some thing or another, washing dishes or cleaning up. Which wouldn't be fun anyway, I know. But I wouldn't feel left out. Everyone is effortlessly hanging around and having fun—and I just want to go to bed right now.

Oh, and I had to throw Dídac and Caro out of my bedroom, too. Dídac is D's little cousin and a clone of Cristiano Ronaldo. Really. And I know for sure because he was shirtless when I came in—they were snogging on my bed, of all places. Yes, I'm rather grossed out. I would never have pegged Caro as a cradle robber, by the way. I mean, the guy might be eighteen, but he acts as if he was fifteen, tops.

She'll be so ashamed of herself in the morning.

Anyway, there isn't any more snogging going on in the house, I believe, so don't think this has developed into some kind of orgy. There's food, there's drinks, there are childish people –namely, David—playing with firecrackers in the terrace, and only a couple of drunk people so far; you can see the neighbourhood bonfire from my room, too... Now that I think of it, that might have been the snogging-inducer. I have to get David near that window NOW.

Kidding.

Though he does look good in his—what else?—striped green shirt. He's even wearing shoes...

Anyway, it's 3 am, when are these people going to leave???

Oh, Lola Colinas is here. Lola Colinas, you know her, the creepy girl that started working for Granddad after the Jaime debacle. She can downgrade any party just by being there. Then Caro's friends keep asking people what do they do with their lives, and comparing themselves to them. Because they are empty headed and unmotivated, thus need to feel better and cooler than anyone, I imagine. They practically reduced David's metalhead friend to tears, but afterwards he had a couple of beers and is currently playing air guitar in the middle of our living room.

Good for him I guess, but really... air guitar?

Especially as he has to sing _Smoke on the water_ himself.

And the theatre people laugh very loudly and have eaten practically everything we had. They are in my library/office/computer room and you can hear them laugh inside—they only get out to raid the kitchen, I think. No wonder, too, with all the pot they've smoked so far. I don't know how I will ever get the smell out of the curtains.

Oh, crap. Charlie caught me. He says he needs help, I shouldn't hide from people, everyone is so nice...

Talk to you later.

Isabel

***

I was just minding my business and in no way responsible of what happened, I swear. Carla and I were sitting in the terrace—we had done away with all the firecrackers by then—and we were hanging out with a couple of friends in our theater company, some hippyish kids from Charlie's History of Art classes and a gangly, funny guy from Caro's tennis club that was actually crashing the party, because Caro had invited everyone but him.

Lola was also there. It was kind of unavoidable. She sat by my right in a little red Chinese-looking dress and tried to make conversation with everyone that came near her. Not with me, though, 'cause every time she tried I just gave her coca. Which is a kind of traditional cake. Not a drug. A cake.

Don't make me feel bad, she's too thin anyway.

Then, out of the blue and within my earshot, Elena—that girl in my theater company—said to the gangly guy,

"But Jaime was such a bastard. He just couldn't not flirt with every thing that breathed, I mean, even with girls I hated..."

Well, whatever. It's not as if she was an angel.

And, really, if a guy's ex doesn't have the right to hate him, who has?

So when Carla raised her eyebrows at me—Elena is rather loud when she has drunk—I just shrugged and got up, not wanting to hear about Jaime's sexual drive or whatever the girl kept talking about.

"I'll have another of these," I stated, rising and showing her my empty Coronita bottle.

Lola sat up. "Oh, I'll come with you."

"No, no." I grabbed her champagne flute in an attempt to dissuade her and went, "I'll get yours too."

"Now, now, we can't let such a hot boy wander alone in a party," she gushed, getting up and going after me.

I didn't run. Not even when she clung to my arm. I'm a good person, you know, and I didn't want Carla to kill me afterwards.

"Nice party, isn't it? They are so stylish. And rich. I wish I could be like them when I grow up, haha. Don't you think it's incredibly nice of them to host a party like this? I mean, it's not like they are making friends with the in people, and they could have gone party anywhere... where the beautiful people go, I mean. Not that I don't think you are hottt." She gazed at me from beneath her eyelashes and I tried not to take it personally. I mean, it had become clear as weeks had gone by that, if there was something Lola needed desperately, it was sex.

So I thought this was just her regular flirting. And that it was kind of cute the way she said 'hottt', just like Carla.

"Why thank you, Lola."

"Don Carlos José never throws any party, you know, he's so serious, but he has just the perfect house to—why, it even has its own pool, and an incredibly big garden, and a cook, though I don't think he'd let anyone play with firecrackers. But maybe a romantic bonfire... It's the perfect place for a party, even if he never throws any, you know. He's too important for that."

We were already in the living room, which was unfortunately deserted. Julia's iPod was playing Shakira through the posh sound system, loud enough to make Lola's hips sway with the music. She smiled up at me.

"Do you know I used to learn Arabic dances? As in, belly dance?"

Yes, she started dancing right then.

I imagine it would have been nice if she hadn't looked at me so intensely—she didn't even blink, and we were alone in the room, and she was feeling clearly self-conscious, and the music was all about ebony eyes and such, and then she started mouthing the lyrics.

To me.

Without blinking.

And I don't even have eyes that dark, you know. They are kind of mid-brown, not light enough to be hazel like Julia's and not dark enough to be intense. Just tobacco-brown. But I've recently been told they are fine eyes, so I won't complain much.

Where was I?

God, yes.

Lola was trying to seduce me but was, instead, both embarrassing and terrifying me thoroughly. It wasn't that she didn't dance well, poor girl. I didn't even pay any attention to what she did with her hips, I wanted to run so badly. I guess it was something similar to that videoclip of Shakira and Beyonce rubbing on walls and looking like man-eating madwomen.

That was more or less the look on Lola's face.

So I took one doomed step backwards, discovered the white designer couch was behind me and was then pushed by Lola. So I stumbled and sat down, and then—

Okay, wait. I'm laughing so hard I can't—

And then the belly dance developed into something a lot more like a lap dance. No, really, she was all over me and I just couldn't figure out how it had come to that—she had been harmlessly clinging to my arm just a minute ago.

She was wiggling against me while I tried to slide away along the sofa, and really, I didn't know whether I should be thankful no-one was around to see it, or angry there was nobody watching to prevent Lola from dancing.

And suddenly she _licked_ me.

I tried scrambling to my feet at that, but, see, she was half-sitting half-straddling my lap. Which, I know, was the whole point.

I swear I didn't get up so that she'd fall. I tried to be, ah, unobtrusive. As much as possible, anyway. But maybe I stumbled on her feet, or she on mine, and next thing I knew I was standing, and she had toppled over.

She looked up at me from the comfortable rug—she didn't get hurt or anything, at least—and her face crumpled. She blinked at me, once, rather sadly.

"Shit, are you alright? Do you need a hand?" She didn't answer, just blinked again, sniffled, and began weeping. Yes, weeping. She tried to hide her face, and it made me feel even worse. "Nononono," I cried, all panicky, and helped her rise from there taking her by the elbows. "Don't cry, let's talk this over, you and I, OK? Let's just grab a drink and, ah, talk."

Stupid, I know. I mean, what could we possibly talk about? But you see, we LIVE together, we had to work things out somehow. So my plan was something like getting her a drink, talk about nice things—I was even willing to listen to don Carlos José de Burgos' opinions—and then, after I was sure there were no hard feelings, get Julia and Carla to sort out the girly stuff. Like, if I had caused any major self-esteem disaster or worsened a previous one.

Not the best plan ever, but hey, I had just been sexually harassed. I couldn't think clearly.

She didn't seem to have any objections—she avoided looking at me and just ducked into the nearest room. So I chose to think she hadn't said no. Which had to mean she agreed to talking.

Charlie and Isabel were in the kitchen when I went to get the drinks. He was pacing, and she was primly sitting on the kitchen counter. She saw me at the door and sat straighter. She was wearing a violet summer dress and her hair was down, and she had been looking rather sulky the whole evening. Which I took note of because I had to report to Jaime, of course.

"Where is everyone?" I greeted them, going straight to the fridge.

"To see the bonfire up close or something. And some have left... and Julia is with Cristian in the bathroom," said Charlie, standing still so I could open the fridge. When I looked at him questioningly, he said, "He's feeling unwell."

At the same time, Isabel said, "He's drunk and being sick," then, "and your cousin just left with Caro."

She says she was not, but I swear she was smirking.

She didn't get any reaction from me, though. I just grabbed two Coronitas with one hand and said, "Is there lemon left?"

"David, I want to dance with your sister," said Charlie, as earnest as if he was asking for my permission to marry her. I shrugged, as in 'Go ahead'.

Isabel-the-nepotist didn't react to his outburst; maybe they had just been talking about that. "There should be some wedges in a bowl."

I looked inside the fridge again, and Charlie started explaining his big problem.

"Yes, but David, no-one is dancing and she's so shy she won't want to, and Izzy here doesn't want to help."

"What I don't want to do is dance with some random boy so you'll feel in the safety of numbers."

"Well, you can dance with David and I'll just ask Arnau and his girlfriend--"

"Um, no, Charlie," I said, having opened the beer bottles and stuffed the lemon inside. I looked back at them, and they were both watching me. There wasn't anything more interesting to look at in the kitchen, I guess. I grabbed some paper napkins, too, in case Lola had no kleenex or something. You never know. "I can't right now. I need to fix something first. Metaphorically. I haven't broken or stained anything as of yet," I added, when I noticed Isabel had started frowning at me.

Carla poked her head through the door right then, quipping, "Did I leave my cigarettes here? Where's Lola?"

"Hm." Really, what could I say? 'She tried to seduce me and I made her cry?' But something must have shown in my face—namely, guilt—, because Carla narrowed her eyes at me and asked The Unwanted Question.

"What have you done to her?"

I tried not to, but this kind of silence goes straight to my head. So I drew near her and whispered,

"She tried to seduce me and I made her cry."

"David!"

"It was unintentional," I offered, grimacing.

She didn't even hit my arm or anything, though. That made me feel better. She just raised her eyebrows, and I said, "And she lap danced."

Not to mention she licked my face.

She laughed at that. "Oh my. Was she good?"

"How am I to know? I was too scared to look."

Isabel and Charlie were both looking like they dearly wanted to know what was going on, so Carla just took the beer and the napkins from me and said.

"I'll take it from here. Wish me luck!"

"And your cigarettes?"

"Hang that," she said, in a carefree voice I didn't understand, and off she went.

As I turned—I still needed a drink!--Charlie said, "So you can help me now?"

And that's how I ended up dancing with Isabel.

I've wondered since how enjoyable would it have been had I wanted to enjoy myself. But I didn't want to, you see, because would you want to have fun dancing with a supposedly frigid bitch that had hurt your friend and kept staring at you AND had challenged and beaten you in class? Even if her hair kept brushing your hands at the small of her back?

Well, I didn't.

I felt damned uncomfortable, too.

"The party has been fun, I think," I said. The past tense was because we were at that point in which people are sprawled everywhere trying not to fall asleep. It was the best time to dance, because everyone was kind of drowsy and happy. Charlie had even dimmed the lights, and Julia was leaning on him while he caressed her back.

Which might have been Charlie's goal, now that I think about it.

Or Julia's. She was the one who went bra-less to the party in the first place.

Though she looked rather tense, if you ask me. I thought it was related to the fact Charlie was leaving. But anyone that had seen them together would have known Charlie was madly in love with her, so I didn't feel particularly worried about that.

Anyway, I said that, and Isabel said,

"Yes."

And that was it.

But I didn't want to be there, half-hugging with Isabel, swaying in time with the music, in silence. I needed some distraction, and watching my sister cuddle with Charlie wasn't it.

Also, I figured out she wouldn't want to talk. So I made conversation.

"It is your turn to say something now. I praised your party, and you should make some kind of remark on the music or the snacks."

I think she smiled at my shirt.

"Really. Why don't you tell me what I should say and I will repeat it."

"OK, that will do for now."

"Do you always talk when you dance with girls?"

"Sometimes. One _has_ to speak a little, if one wants to get to know the girl in question." She kind of pressed her nose on my shoulder, in a gesture that I didn't actually get. "But of course there are some that prefer never to speak at all."

"Is 'some' supposed to be me?" she said, not looking up.

"You and I. We are both unsocial and unwilling to speak unless we think we will be thought witty. "

"That can hardly be you, seeing you can't stop talking and just _dance_," she said, and it was clear she had understood the barb. Maybe that was what had her saying, mere seconds later, "So have you got plans after this?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend that wasn't invited here. Maybe that's why he didn't come pick me up after all."

She looked up at me again, going white, and I couldn't bring myself to go on. She gulped and said, now very clearly ill at ease,

"Jaime?"

"Yes."

"He has started to let you down, then. He's so charming, that making friends is very easy for him, but he never could keep one of them."

"He hasn't let me down, and I doubt he let _you_ down either."

If looks killed, I'd be dead right now. She froze me on the spot, but luckily—so, so luckily— Carla and Lola choose that exact moment to emerge from the room they had been hidding in and bid their general goodbyes. Carla helped Lola with her coat and tugged her by the hand towards the door. Lola followed, not looking at us. She looked even cheerful, really.

Charlie waved at them, not letting Julia go, and we continued as we were.

"What were we talking about? I don't remember," said Isabel, smiling at me. Really, why did she smile? I didn't like her and I didn't want to dance with her in first place.

"I don't remember," I said. About Jaime, I knew, but I didn't want to talk anymore. "We have tried, but I don't think we have much in common."

The song ended, and I dropped my arms. She let go of me rather more slowly—she had her arms around my neck—and said, "We could talk about, I don't know, films."

"I'm sure we never watch the same, and if we do, don't think the same about them," I said, leaning on the door to the terrace in order to watch the couples dancing. I can't remember what song had we been dancing to, but the one that was just starting was _Diecinueve_, a slow love song by an obscure group Julia liked very much.

Isabel perched on the sofa arm, right next to me, and also next to a very dizzy-looking Cristian. "Then we surely wouldn't lack discussion topics. Or, we could talk of books."

She should have gone away by then, shouldn't she? I thought she must really be bored, if she felt condescending—or desperate—enough to try to talk with me. "Nah, it's too late for us to hold a coherent discussion. It's more like cuddling time."

She looked up sharply at that.

I didn't notice, because I was talking about the dancing couples. Of course, I mean, it would have never occurred to me Isabel was capable of cuddling. I was thinking about her and Jaime, too, and about gathering useful information, so I asked,

"I remember hearing you say that you could never forgive an offense." I looked at her from the corner of my eye. She was facing me, and she nodded. "I suppose you are very careful then, and are not easily offended."

"Yes."

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice."

"Never, I hope."

"Or jealousy."

She narrowed her eyes at me then.

"_That_ is none of your business. Why are you asking, anyway?"

"Why, to get to know you," I said, not looking at her. The song was ending already, and Charlie didn't look like he intended to stop dancing any time soon.

And then—I shudder every time I recall those two or three seconds.

And then, Julia raised her head from his shoulder, surprise etched on her face as she looked at the blood stain she had left on Charlie's shirt. Her nose was bleeding. She fainted.

***

606XXXXX19: I'M FREEEEE!!! I HAVE MY MOBILE BACK!!!

639XXXXX44: Jorge! :D

606XXXXX19: Told you I was out today! I'm in the bus 2 airport.

639XXXXX44: Where's dad?

606XXXXX19: Congress in Berlin. Am alr8, AM FREE!

639XXXXX44: I'll kill him.

606XXXXX19: I'm a big boy. AND I'M FREEEEE!

639XXXXX44: Fizzy'll pick you up in Barajas if you text her your arrival time.

606XXXXX19 : Thanx. How was your party?

639XXXXX44: Dreadful. Ju fainted and is now in the hospital. C's hysterical.

606XXXXX19: Shit. What's wrong with her?

639XXXXX44: They don't know yet. We're at the Hosp too.

606XXXXX19: Tell C I'm sorry.

639XXXXX44: D told C Julia had a cancer when she was 17.

606XXXXX19: ?????

639XXXXX44: And bleeding is a v. bad sign.

606XXXXX19: She hadn't told Charlie?

639XXXXX44: she forgot to mention many things.

606XXXXX19: :(

639XXXXX44: But you are FREE!

606XXXXX19: Til September.

639XXXXX44: We will work that out. I have to make Charlie eat something. Call me when you get home.

606XXXXX19: Or if I get lost. :3

639XXXXX44: XOXOXO

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks A LOT to my betas, Hele (hl) and VickyVicarious. They are both the most supportive, wonderful beta-readers. Great authors, too! *nudges people towards their profiles*


	8. Chapter 8

_¿Adónde te escondiste, Amado, y me dejaste con gemido?_

'Where did you hide, my Love, and left me in mid-moan?'

San Juan de la Cruz, _Cántico espiritual_

 

 

I woke up when someone stroked my arm. I blinked, noticing the sunlight on nape of my head and the ache in my back—but I had fallen asleep on a plastic chair, so nothing new there.

Julia was sitting in front of me, bare feet dangling from the high hospital bed. The blind made her upper body look lined in grey and gold.

"How are you breathing?" My voice was raspy. She offered me the remains of the bottled water I had gotten her some hours ago, after we'd been shown into the room.

"I'm OK. The nurse that took away the breakfast tray said that a doctor would check if I was alright before we could go home. Maybe before lunch."

I remembered the nurse who had brought the tray _in_. So I had slept from nine to—I checked my watch—twenty to noon. "Have you slept?"

"A bit. I'm tired. But I want to go home."

I stretched. I hurt all over—head, neck, shoulders, stomach, you name it. It would take a while until the doctor came, I guessed. You don't want to have anything to do with a hospital during San Joan—firecrackers, alcohol, fire and driving don't make the safest of combinations. The ER room had been packed when we had gotten there. Really, no, it was a madhouse. "I need a coffee," I said, going into the bathroom to splash water on my face and try to freshen up a bit. My clothes still smelled of cigarettes.

When I gave up trying to feel tidy, Julia was once again lying on the bed, looking, well, like she really didn't want to be there. I kissed her forehead while re-buttoning my shirt. "I'll get you a girly magazine with lots of personality tests." Which I guess was the wrong thing to say, because that's the kind of thing I did for her back when she had cancer.

She sniffled, not looking at me, and grasped my hand very hard. "I love you."

I hugged her the best I could, though she didn't let go of my hand. "I'll bring you coffee, then. Want me to call mom and dad?"

She shook her head against my chest. "We'll tell mom if the blood tests are... bad. I don't care about dad."

But dad cares about her. It's hard to explain such resentment in Julia, of all people. She hasn't held a grudge in her life—and this one isn't even her grudge. It's our mother's.

So it's true, my dad shouldn't have left like that, without warning or goodbyes or coming to see us for so long—though he did call. But my mom shouldn't have cried to her children about how lonely she felt and how unhappy she was. She made us unhappy too, and she made us resentful. And when summer came and mom cried about how much she was going to miss us when we visited dad, I went anyway, and Julia stayed.

It had only got worse since then, to the point Julia and I tried not to talk about it. I guess both she and dad are too passive to ever make a move towards reconciliation—they are quite alike, in fact. They just won't bulge without proof the other loves them. And so Julia has never been to Granada.

I guess what you actually want to know is why we were in the hospital. Well. Julia fainted, her nose bleeding as it used to during chemo, and I freaked out. The hospital thing was, all of it, my fault, but I don't see how I could have acted otherwise. As soon as she opened her eyes—lying on the floor, her feet propped up on Charlie's lap—I said, "I'm taking you to the ER."

"Yes," she said, all white and dazed. Everyone was standing around, frozen on the spot, and it was weird because the music had never stopped. Charlie looked frightened, but said he was driving us in Isabel's car. Isabel just frowned and tossed _me_ the keys.

So I drove, while in the back seat a very scared Julia told a very scared Charlie she had had a cancer and she had no uterus now, and yes that meant she couldn't have children, and that was why she hated the pictures in the living room in which her hair was short. She rambled, Charlie flipped out, then Julia flipped out too, which made them both talk at once and way too loud, distracting me, and I took the wrong turn and shouted at them, causing Charlie to shut up and Julia to have an asthma crisis.

You should be glad you weren't in that car.

Though the wheezing stopped as soon as she was treated, which admittedly took a while, because of the people crowding the ER, Julia said it still hurt to breathe. So they gave us a room, to have her under observation. Julia let go of Charlie's hand—she had been grasping both our hands for hours by then—and told him to go home and get some sleep.

Charlie did go home, but by the time I reached the foyer from the cafeteria, he was already there, pink flowers in hand, Isabel at his side like a moody squire. He looked exhausted, yet was as friendly as ever. We took the lift together, commenting how sick we all looked in the yellowish mirror inside. We hadn't slept much, of course, but we didn't say anything about that. He took the flowers and Julia's coffee to her, and Isabel and I just sat outside the room.

Isabel hadn't said a word yet. She had been texting someone when I had found her and Charlie before, and she was still at it, writing at high speed, then looking restless while she waited for an answer. Then the cellphone in her hand buzzed and she started typing again.

After a while, she put the phone in her giant shoulder bag and leaned back on her chair, watching Charlie with me as she tapped her foot impatiently. She then got up and paced, blocking my view every once in a while. Not that I was spying on my sister or anything.

There was nothing much to do in the corridor. I watched people walk by us, and Charlie's face though the window of the room as he talked to Julia. I only saw the shape of Julia's cheek, though, or her profile if she looked at the flowers instead of at Charlie.

I was sure they would work it out. I was sure they would. They loved each other, right?

And they could always adopt, later on. Charlie did look like he would want to have kids someday.

"When will you know? About the cancer?" That was Isabel's first question. Not 'How is Julia', or 'How are you'. Charlie had asked that as soon as he saw me, so it wasn't as if she didn't know the answer. Though I had only said "fine." But come on, she hadn't even said hello.

"We will come back for a blood test tomorrow morning. Then it's a matter of a few days." I looked up at her, then back at Charlie. He had now taken Julia's hand and seemed very earnest. I didn't try to make out what he was saying. It looked too intimate. So I looked back at Isabel. She was—surprise!—frowning back at me. I was too tired to deal with her disapproval, especially since I had no idea what was bothering her.

"Have you had breakfast?" Couldn't she see? I raised my coffee a bit, without looking at her. "Can I get you anything else? You should eat something solid," she continued, sounding like a stern teacher. I shook my head, but she sat down again, next to me, and rummaged through her bag until she found an individual packet of Dinosaurios. She handed it to me.

"They are my brother's favorites," she said. "I always have some. In case I, hm, get hungry." I know, you can't really dislike someone who always has dinosaur-shaped cookies on them. But I managed just fine.

"How old is he, anyway?"

"He'll be sixteen soon."

"Ah. They are good. Thank you."

I ate. She tapped her foot. She wasn't wearing her boots. Apparently she had hundreds of delicate-looking sandals, too.

"Charlie told me Julia had cancer when she was seventeen. It must have been hard."

It had been. I said nothing, though. I really didn't feel like talking about it, much less to an icy Isabel. It was awkward enough as it was. And I didn't like her. So of course I wasn't going to tell her for how long Julia cried in her room when they told her.

Or how it felt to call my dad to tell him after my mother had insisted _not_ to "because he didn't care anyway".

Or about how Julia would throw up everyday between six and half past six in the afternoon, and she and I grew so used to it we kept a basin next to the sofa so she didn't have to miss much of whatever we were watching on TV.

Or about that day she got mad at me because my hair was longer than hers—mom hadn't remembered to take me to have my hair cut for nearly a year.

The thing is, it didn't take me long to realize I was the only one who could actually be of any use to Julia, because both my parents were useless in major crisis. Yes, dad came. Yes, mom tried. But they couldn't deal with their feelings. Dad stood around, said nothing, didn't do much except drive her to and from her tests, go grocery-shopping for us and make sure I brushed my teeth. Mom cried a lot and seemed to suffer much more than Julia.

And so it was my job to make my sister happy. To worry about the laundry, make sure the VHS was programmed to record her favorite anime, remember about her pills if she didn't, that kind of thing. Oh, well. It's… It's not that my parents are _bad_ parents, or that I took care of everything alone. Every family has its short-comings. And I hoped ours weren't going to be tested again.

Charlie came out then, looking tight-lipped and strange. Isabel jumped up and they started discussing something in very low voices, both of them frowning and slowly shaking their heads.

"She _what_? We are _leaving_." That was Isabel, sounding incredulous (hence the italics). Charlie hushed her.

"Will you tell her to call me, when you know about the- if she is fine?" He said, turning to me. Isabel was pulling him by the hand already.

"To call you?"

"Yes, eh, see you later then!" He waved at me, walking backwards towards the elevators. Isabel threw me a long look over her shoulder, but I was already going into Julia's room. She was absently fingering the petals of the pink carnations, but looked up at me when I drew nearer. She looked like she didn't want to cry.

Which, somehow, was worse than finding her weeping.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz**

**To: Jorge Díaz**

**Subject: Latest news**

Hey! Just a quick note to let you know I'll be taking Charlie and Caro to the airport now—C is currently settling the last details with the landlord and all.

I'm driving all the way to Madrid, I've decided. I'm going to take the _long_ way. I checked some maps online and I have planned a route with views. I've even rented a room in some plave called Monreal del Campo—I need some time to think. Time means, in this case, ten hours of driving. So I'll reach Madrid tomorrow. If dad doesn't like it, he should have thought about it before buying me a car. Do not lie to him if he asks—please.

News about Julia: no news yet. I can't believe it. She hasn't called since San Juan, and we've barely managed to keep C from making an ass of himself. Caro can't stand the idea of them being together—she practically cringes every time she hears _cancer_. I never thought she even cared about having nieces. But she keeps saying—when C's not around to hear—that he deserves to have his own children.

I'm so sorry for him. I never thought she loved him like he does, but really. There are things you can't keep a secret, and times in which you can't just stay silent. And the reserved act Julia pulls—well. I get all incensed just to think about it.

I insisted we must leave as scheduled. Caro sided up with me, of course. She's dying to go to Milan and buy clothes or whatever. Charlie is so broken-hearted he hardly put up any resistence. He justs mopes around all day. He needs to leave, to see his friends, to remember himself. I can't see him like this.

Ah, I have no patience today. At least everything is packed away already, and my car is loaded. I feel kind of sorry to leave the city, but I can't wait to see you. Should we go out to celebrate? I say we should. You choose the restaurant, and tell dad he'd better make it. And if he can't, we take Reynalda out. Though we should take her out anyway.

I'll call tonight from Monreal del Campo.

_Un beso,_

Isabel

*******

Julia was healthy as an apple, the doctor said. We tried not to squeal and not to dance our way out of the hospital. She looked suddenly alive with joy, and we kind of skipped all the way to the lift, and bounced inside until the thing trembled under our feet. Which admittedly didn't take much.

The sun shone, the birds sang, and we got all sweaty by biking back home. We decided to celebrate that night. We had a Sunday lunch by the sea scheduled with mom and Dídac soon—because I had graduated and he was going home for the summer. But of course they didn't know about the Dreadful Hospital Incident, and we sure weren't planning on telling.

We invited Carla, since she had been so helpful in keeping Julia entertained and not thinking about mom discovering about the analytics, having failed European Gothic, Charlie's plane crashing and, also, dying an untimely and tragic death in less than three months. Both Carla and the Europe Football Cup had been very useful in distracting her. Especially since Spain kept winning and we couldn't quite believe it. Not to mention the apparent abundance of virile footballers.

Carla said we couldn't possibly leave Lola at home, so we told her too. Then I called Jaime, who said he was—as usual—very busy around the nightclubs. After that Julia decided that she wouldn't call any of her girl friends because she wanted an 'appartment family thing'. Which didn't work out either, since the boys had plans. Concerning nightclubs, too, and a classical guitar concert.

And so it wasonly the four of us celebrating. Well, I'm sure Charlie would have come too, had he been in the city. Julia had explained after some prodding—particularly mom's—that he needed to take an exam back in Florence, where he had been studying History of Art, remember? And then he had some annoying paperwork in Milan, though he had said he'd be back by the beginning of July. She repeated this information every time she was questioned, and she was questioned a lot. Mom was ridiculously happy her daughter was going out with a rich and handsome boy, and also foolishly worried he wouldn't come back after all.

To my ears, there was a hint of concealed doubt in the way Julia parroted "he _said_ he'll be back in a week". I dismissed her fears--really, anyone that had seen Charlie look at her wouldn't doubt he was head over heels in love. I was totally sure he was planning on settling in Barcelona next year.

Oh, ah, yes, the celebration. We decided on something quiet, non-alcoholic, with absolutely no dancing involved. San Joan had been too much in too many levels, I guess. So we hit _our_ Chinese restaurant, at Julia's special request—we had been there twice before, but Julia called it ours out of fondness. Lola agreed at once, Carla was strangely willing to do as Lola said, and I wouldn't be the one to object to veal and curry rice.

The truth is, it was rather fun, to the point we disregarded our own rules and ended up gulping down a couple of shots of some supposedly flowery liquour. But that was after dessert. I mean, it would have been rather rude to say no, considering they were for free. And we were all bubbly and chatty to start with anyway.

Lola was the least talkative of the four, which helped the mood. I'm not sure whether she was more quiet than usual or it was the rest of us who were amazingly loquacious. She looked more comfortable, anyway, and when she spoke she didn't complain of things—much. She did scrunch her nose at the waiter's long pinky nail, but I think that was it.

I didn't notice at all that something was wrong. Or, OK, not wrong. Different.

Maybe Carla's refusal to eat much should have alerted me. She claimed to have joined Lola in her diet, and they shared a salad and that veal dish that comes with vegetables in a sizzling cow-shaped pan.

Well, what? They serve it that way in _our_ restaurant. The cow is rather, er… artistic.

Anyway, Julia and I told Carla not to be silly and sample our three delight noodles, or at least a Dim Sum. Lola jumped to defend her, and Carla brushed the whole thing off, saying she just wanted to get into shape. Well, it was highly suspicious, because it had been years since she had given up on any kind of diet. The lack of sugar made her very cranky, she said, and she'd rather be a happy seal than a moody dolphin.

She seemed to stay somewhat true to that philosophy, because afterwards, while we headed to the cinema, she pleaded her way into having 'a handful' of popcorn and sugar-free Nestea. The begging involved making doe-eyes at Lola.

I _know_.

Carla has these huge dark eyes, so the trick really works. Especially since she uses it so rarely—sheer stubborness is more her thing, really. That would be weird thing number, well, two or three.

So I followed her to the popcorn queue while Julia and Lola got us the tickets, thinking I'd better give her some useful advice on dealing with Lola Colinas. Besides, I wanted to know what was going on. And popcorn, too.

"I think I should warn you," I said, settling by her side. "Keep that up and next thing you know Lola will be following _you_ around. And, you know. She _lap-dances_."

"I think I should warn you," she answered, opening her wallet. "You should pay more attention when girls dance for you. I found it quite delightful, with the wiggling, the shimmying and all. Get a big bucket and sit by my side, will you?"

She looked so _smug_. I stared at her and tried to phrase my next question very carefully. " When have you seen her dance?"

She raised one eyebrow at me, the feline smile still fixed in place. "Why, silly. After the party. And then she ***ed and ***ed me—" I covered my ears with my hands at that, feeing naturally horrified, and tried very hard not to hear anything else.

I've been kind to you, as you can see, and censored the icky bits.

I guess only Lola could turn a tale of lesbian debauchery into something gross by default.

"Is the ear-covering necessary?" Carla wondered, loud enough for me to hear. She smiled politely to the blank popcorn boy that waited for us to order.

"I don't want to hear," I explained to her in case it wasn't obvius. She didn't seem to care either way, so I added, ears still safely covered, "One big bucket, a sugar-free Nestea and a Sprite?"

Carla sighed and slipped her hand into my back pocket to get my wallet from there. She pinched my ass in the process, but paid for us both with my money—as the good friend she is—while my hands were busy protecting my sanity.

We saw the Batman film, the one with the gay cowboy in it. Not that I have anything againts gay cowboys, you see, except when they have sex in a tent without any kind of warning and you are in the cinema and don't know where to look. If they'd had been two girls, though, I'd have known _exactly_ where to look. Still. He did something similar in Batman—but instead of averting my eyes because of gay sex, I did it when he went all sadist on people.

Right, so. We liked the movie, and _someone_ ate one third of my popcorn. I thought that would be it, right? Lola and Carla had had sex. I could deal with that. What I couldn't deal with was _talking_ about it.

But, Carla being Carla, she didn't give up. She waited until we were biking our way home--so I couldn't cover my ears without letting go of the handle, yes. It was a 'listen or collide' strategy, typically hers. She sided with me and dropped the bomb:

"Lola and I are going out."

But I had had time to think—until Batman started, that is—and I had come up with a plausible explanation for any Lola-related weird behaviour. I went, "Why? You don't like Lola."

"I do."

"No, you want to think you do, but it's alright, you know. It was a party, you both drank, you are both adults. She got into your pants, so what? Don't let her guilt-trip you into anything, for God's sake."

She glanced sideways at me, no doubt wondering when had I become so pig-headed. She tossed her hair—it's hard, since she wears a short page cut, but she does do it anyway.

"That's a nice theory. What would you come up with if I said I like Lola, and it was me who got into her pants?"

I nearly fell into a tree hole at the mental image. She halted by my side and kind of smiled at me—but it was that special smile that means 'Now, be a good boy and just agre to what I'm saying, 'cause I'm not very patient today.' The night air was hot and humid after the coolness of the cinema, and I thought the best course of action was to hear her out, tell her where she was going wrong, and then go home to sort it out.

Carla looked at her hands on the bycicle handle and spoke in her most no-nonsense voice. "I'm willing to admit she's awkward with people and somewhat socially inept. In a _sweet_ way. And she does admire don Carlos a great deal, but whatever. None of this makes her a bad person, or stupid, or unappealing to me."

I remained silent, sensing that sharing my feelings on the understatement of the year might not be a welcome addition to the conversation. But I mean. Awkward? Creepy was more like it. Not to mention she was whiny, needed constant attention and was excepcionally unfeeling of the others' problems. Not to mention her political views—if they were really hers, and not her employer's.

She went on, rising her chin a notch. "And I can't believe you'll judge her unlovable only because she wasn't lucky enough to be liked by you. Well, _I _like her. And I'm going with her to Granada this summer, since she has invited me to work with don Carlos de Burgos."

"Carla," I said, meaning to tell her why this wasn't a great idea at all. Because you know, it sounded a bit as if Carla was going out with Lola because of the job. Not to mention she had gone through a series of girl-related rough patches. Hooking up with Lola meant—it was clear as day for me—she was settling for second best. She didn't actually believe in her own worth, and didn't want to be alone any longer.

It's a hard life, Jaime had said, and damn he was right. But Carla deserved—well, Scarlett Johansson or Dana Scully at the very least. Not _Lola Colinas_.

Sometimes it's like Carla can read my mind.

"David. I'm not a romantic. I never was." That was a blatant lie, but still I just glared at her. I know what she meant, but still she was wrong.

OK, she wouldn't be much impressed by a bunch of red roses, even if delivered under pouring rain five minutes before a flight she was supposed to get and complete with the perfect kiss. Though she'd definitely enjoy the kiss.

But I remember back when she was dating that Jessica—a girl that dressed, looked and talked like a chubby skater boy, to the point you had to look for earrings to get the gender straight—how happy she was. She had the biggest crush on her, you could tell. She didn't do anything _romantic_, true, but she would have done any unromantic thing in the world for her.

It ended awfully. But still. It gave me ground to stare at her as stonily as I could--I don't stare very well, to tell you the truth.

"And fine, Lola isn't wet dream material. But it's a chance to be with someone, doing someone—_something_ I like. And I don't care about any of the objections you are going to make. Do _not_ dare to judge me. You are supposed to be my friend."

She pedalled away, clearly mad at me. I said nothing then, and I said nothing in the days that followed before she left, but we both knew what I would say if the topic ever came up. And we both knew what she would reply and how we'd end up shouting at each other—so we never actually discussed it again, because we had fought in our heads and no-one was going to have a change of heart.

They left the 1st of July, and Charlie hadn't come back yet.

*******

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Charlie!

Charlito says: izzy!!!!

Charlito says: wait ur offline

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: I'm lurking.

Charlito says: how r u[?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Can you type like a normal person?

Charlito says: do i have 2[?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: PLEASE.

Charlito says: k

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: ...

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Annoying me on purpose, aren't you?

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: I'm fine. I just wanted to talk to you.

Charlito says: why[?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Well, you never answered my last e-mail. How are you doing?

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Must your ?s *bounce*?

Charlito says: mst you be so prissy[?][?][?][?][?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: So you aren't exactly spiffy, are you?

Charlito says: [welcome!!!]l no

Charlito says: we ll no

Charlito says: sorry

Charlito says: i was going to answer you know

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: I know. I thought I'd check on you anyway.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: I hate your emoticons. :) They keep springing up and BOUNCING.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: _Vamos_, C.

Charlito says: I know, I'm being cranky.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Kind of. But I love you anyway.

Charlito says: You are silly like that.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: [heart]

Charlito says: So what's up[?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: The whole point of lurking was not telling you about my life but gaining some intelligence from you. So far, I've learned you are rather upset, possibly with me.

Charlito says: No.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: No?

Charlito says: no, though I'd rather have stayed. But I see how you are right.

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: I am relieved indeed.

Charlito says: :)

Charlito says: can you change the depressing quotation[?]

Isa :: Ubi sunt says: Oh.

Isabelita says: Better now?

Charlito says: Oh yes. :D

Isabelita says: Good. Since I wrote telling you all about me and Jorge, it's your time to open up and such.

Charlito says: [welcome!!!]l I didn't read it

Isabelita says: Does the guy with the welcome banner pop up every time you write 'wel'?

Charlito says: Yup.

Charlito says: I'm sorry about the email.

Charlito says: Ju has written and I haven't been much around the computer since then

Isabelita says: oh? How is she?

Charlito says: healthy

Charlito says: and sort of neutral

Isabelita says: neutral?

Isabelita says: Neutral how?

Charlito says: I'll forward the email

Isabelita says: Okay.

Isabelita says: Got it.

Isabelita says: I'll kill her.

Charlito says: I'd prefer you wouldn't :)

Charlito says: do you think she's angry because I left[?]

Isabelita says: I'll kill her very dead

Charlito says: nooo

Charlie says: izzy[?]

Charlito says: ¿[?]

Charlito says: what are you typing there, the whole bible?

Isabelita says: I'm trying to type a moderate response, and failing.

Charlito says: aah.

Charlito says: consider it typed and delivered.

Isabelita says: Will do.

Charlito says: and caroline wants to pair me up with valeria again

Isabelita says: Not Valeria, please! Rebound with anyone but Valeria!

Charlito says: hah

Charlito says: Okay.

Charlito says: though I don't want to rebound

Isabelita says: Don't tell me you are waiting for her here!

Charlito says: I'm in milan… [eyebrow-raising smiley]

Isabelita says: At the computer I mean.

Charlito: ah.

Charlito says: what if I do[?]

Isabelita says: Charlieeeeeee

Charlito says: not your business

Charlito says: and it's not like you didn't stalk Jaime online.

Isabelita says: EXACTLY.

Isabelita says: It wasn't stalking, by the way. It was BEING PATHETIC.

Isabelita says: So log off already.

Charlito says: whatever!

Isabelita says: Charlieeeee

Charlito says: how's Jorge[?]

Isabelita says: We'll TALK about this.

Charlito says: fine.

Charlito says: how's jorge[?]

Isabelita says: Fine, he's fine. He's ecstatic because dad plans on letting him go back to school in Madrid (still King's) AND have his guitar lessons back.

Charlito says: :D :D :D

Isabelita says: I know!

Charlito says: And he's back to normal[?]

Isabelita says: He's different. But mostly in a good way.

Charlito says: yeah, I know how it is

Charlito says: the boarding school I mean

Isabelita says: You had me at King's College!

Charlito says: You did a great job protecting me, yes

Charlito says: Not to mention pestering

Isabelita says: That I did.

Charlito says: aagh Louie and Caroline say I have to go out.

Isabelita says: out where?

Charlito says: out as in out to meet people and have drinks

Charlito says: ring a bell[?]

Isabelita says: Ah yes. I've heard people do that sometimes.

Isabelita says: Go!

Charlito says: No!

Isabelita says: You are not staying here to moon over Julia.

Charlito says: How are you going to stop me[?]

Isabelita says: I won't. Caro will.

Charlito says: Dead right, you are

Charlito says: as usual.

Isabelita says: Yes. :)

Charlito says: I'll just go and grab a beer.

Isabelita says: Yes. You can decide about things tomorrow.

Charlito says: it sucks, Izzy. It fucking sucks.

Isabelita says: [hugging smileys]

Charlito says: [a panda smooching the screen]

Isabelita says: Eek! What is that thing?!

Charlito says: [classic ROTF]

Isabelita says: Call you tomorrow and we talk-talk, what do you say?

Charlito says: I say alright. [heart]

Isabelita says: [heart]

Charlito says: Til tomorrow then!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to dr. Rowan Greenleaf, who told me all I needed to know about hospitals, cancer and asthma attacks, and bore very well with spoilers. And, of course, special thanks to HlBr, since she had the patience to beta. Still, I had my way afterwards and anyway we didn't bother to correct Charlie and Isabel's typos. Hee.


	9. Chapter 9

_Y como alzó los ojos, en el punto_ _  
que sintió la herida, vio al amante; _ _  
vio al amante y quedó en la hierba verde  
como la mansa cierva que se pierde._

'And as she raised her eyes, right  
as she felt the wound, she saw her love,  
saw her love and stayed on the grass  
like a docile doe to be caught.'

Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, _Fábula de Adonis, Hipomenes y Atalanta_

 

_   
_

July was its usual. That means hot, sunny, and humid in Barcelona—the heat can't get out, what with the concrete and the mountains and the sea wind. We're lucky mom can't stand the heat and _siestas_ give her headaches. Siestas, shade and cold drinks are the natural ways to fight the summer, you know. That, and air conditioning.

So she always rents a flat for some weeks in any of the largely turistic sea villages scattered about the coast. This is good for the most part, but usually has the biggest flaws ever. It's good because the change of airs does my mother good. And Julia too, to a smaller degree. They breath in the salty breeze and only want to to sit around and put sunblock on each other. All day. And the beaches are cleaner than at home, and within walking distance and all.

The pain-in-the-ass bits are the packing and unpacking while mum freaks out, the fact she brings her boyfriends and that my mum tends to choose the most touristic of destinations. Lloret, Arenys, Roses and Salou are PACKED with northern, sun-burnt partygoers swaying around and drinking _sangría_. Fine, mostly at night. But anyway. They are annoying as hell.

The best thing about the beach scheme is always Jardiner. He has has always come—since third grade or so, at least. His parents own a bar, the neighbourly and slightly greasy kind you can find on practically any Spanish block: coffee and croissant in the mornings, a small selection of _tapas_, maybe a midday menu, and not an empty chair on football night. Jardiner's parents are very dedicated; they only take two days off a year: Christmas Day and their anniversary.

So, as a kind of payback for all the _chorizo_ sandwitches his parents fed me on my way back from school (while Jardiner and I exchanged stickers in the corner table), my mom made sure the kid saw some sunlight and stepped on his fair share of sea urchins before he was shipped off to his grandma's small town for the rest of our school holidays.

Ah, in case you are wondering how comes I always refer to Xavi as Jardiner, well. There were three other Xavis in our school year, and everyone stopped calling him Smurf the year he punched the class bully, started dating the most endowed girl we knew, and became the MVP of the school basketball team—though admittedly he was still the shortest player. Not that I had ever called him Smurf, though. Much. I was always his faithful sidekick.

Anyway, yes, sorry, Xavi Jardiner came that year too, since my mom is very fond of him and will keep inviting him when he is fifty, I'm sure. He brought his Irish girlfriend with him, rememeber I mentioned her? Her name is Maddy, she's very sweet and she wants to work as a prison psychologist. She's a great girl—you know, she was supposed to be _my_ fling, since she is half a head taller than Xavi Jardiner, but _she_ had other plans. Our original plan lasted until I introduced Maddy to Carla and Xavi. That is, two months after we had first spotted her in the university cafeteria, and barely ten minutes after I started chatting her up.

In case you are wondering, I consider this a big personal success, because I know for sure she would never have dared to introduce herself, and he never even thought she could be interested—until she blushed bright pink at his cheek-kissing, and Carla, always the wise one, took my arm and announced we had lots of studying to do. We spied on them instead, of course, from a table close enough to see—and far enough not to hear much— while pretending to go over our Phonetics.

When we realized they were talking about Battlestar Galactica, Carla patted my back and said, "So. She wasn't eyeing _you_ after all. Weird. You are prettier."

Truly, that stung more than the girl-snatching.

Anyway. Jardiner, Maddy, Julia and I in Cadaqués. It was fun, more so because, for once, mom chose a pretty tranquil town. There _was_ some partying, but in general we got up late, headed to he beach, had a light lunch at four in the afternoon, slept for a while, played cards in the terrace, had dinner, went for a walk, ate ice-cream and hung out on the beach. Sometimes we dared into the water at night, and some other days we went on trips to do tourism and eat _paella_ in Maddy's honour.

Mom did more or less the same things with her boyfriend, a nice enough mechanic named Santi. We didn't spend the day together, but we did play cards often with them. The rest of the time, she lay in the sun like a stubborn lizard and made him put sunblock on her. Julia preferred to join the rest of us. She got on very well with Maddy, and both seemed to enjoy each other's femenine sense—that is, their lack of interest in manly pursuits such as fooling with our football and mock-wrestling with each other.

Also, mom kept asking Julia about Charlie long after the rest of us had learnt it was better not to mention him.

Let's pause this fast-forward. A nice, if tiny, beach, only a walk away from the white village. Coarse sand and uncomfortable pebbles, half a dozen small boats pushed up into land, clear and ice cold water. Pine trees on one side, more boats rocking gently on the other, past the yellow line of buoys. Do you see those two in the water, racing to the far end? That's Xavi Jardiner and me.

I won, of course, and he paid me back by pulling my swimming trucks down. A small war ensued, which I'm not going to describe because it mainly involves lots of spashing, occasional swallowing of sea water and lots of competing to see who held onto the buoy. Once we had grown tired of that—rather quickly, truth to be told. It seems we _are_ growing old—we wiped our goggles and waved at the girls, squinting to see them past the shiny surface of the water.

"Maddy says Julia isn't well."

Xavi and I don't usually talk about serious things unless we are really down and beer in hand, or Carla is there to steer the conversation. I was caught totally off-guard, and hesitated a bit before admiting:

"Charlie should have come back by now, he even told my mother he'd stay with us here. But Julia won't budge; she won't talk. I don't know if I should put more pressure on her."

"Maddy says she needs to talk with someone." It was rather reassuring to know there was a girl—and a psycologist, at that—using her girly skills in this. Not that all girls are more sensitive than boys (my last ex, for one, so wasn't), but you know. They tend to think and talk more often about feelings and such. "She tried to get her to talk, but..."

"Well, yes, that's Julia for you. She does like Maddy, though. It's just she's..."

"She's Julia."

"Yes."

We explored the zone a bit longer, trying to catch the small fish with our bare hands (as if), before heading back to the shore. Jardiner ran off to his trusting girlfriend, dropping his (cold and wet) body on top of her. She squealed madly, insulted him in English and chased after him. He sought protection in the _chiringuito_ down the road, where he would gallantly invite her to beer and calamari. They would, in all probability, wait for us there while I chatted with Julia.

In case you are wondering, it wasn't even planned. We are just amazing like that.

Julia sat up to let me sit on her towel with a mild warning look and gave me something to dry myself with. I didn't give much thought to where to start; she had gone to the supermarket yesterday, and it was well known by everyone that she stopped by the cybercafé every time she went out alone. "Did Charlie write yesterday?"

She frowned and hid her face between her sand-covered knees. "Not you, too."

"_Et tu, Brutus?_" I joked, placing an arm accross her shoulders. She swatted it away and tossed me the sunscreen. Factor 40. It's not like we don't tan easily, but she's terrified of skin cancer. "He hasn't written, I take."

"He did. On Tuesday. We are fine." She couldn't have fooled anyone with that, but maybe someone else would have given up. Not me, though, because I am as stubborn as my mother. Not to mention Dad and Julia. There's a great deal of hard-headedness in my genetic pool.

"Right. In a scale from zero to ten, how f—?"

She shut me up with an annoyed glance. "We are not as great as we were, but that was an Erasmus. He's back in his real life now. I understand."

Now she _could_ have sounded convincing, but to my practised brotherly ears it was rather like she was trying to convince both of us, not only yours truly. A bit like she did when we talked about dad. "He told you that?"

A pause. She scratched her violet nail polish—Maddy and she had bonded over flea-market shopping and mutual grooming, or maybe they had bonded before that and were simply bored out of their minds while Jardiner and I watched a TV reposition of Predator.

I waited.

"We had a sort of... we had a fallout right before he went home," she said, rocking slightly and then planting her feet firmly in the pebbles.

"At the hospital? Because of...?"

"No, no. I don't think so. He said he wanted to come back, it was the plan. And he... no. I mean... That would be petty. The thing is, I can understand that he's changed his mind about me. He was only an exchange student in Barcelona, and there's the the cancer thing. He can be flighty, and I can live with that. But I don't want to think he is resentful, or that he held my awkwardness against me when I needed him most."

"No. But I don't think you were his Erasmus fling either. No way."

I deserved a _What do _you_ know?_ for that, but Julia is too polite.

"Well, I was. I've been away too, and I know... Everything feels so intense, so new. It would be understandable that we got carried away, that he made plans he doesn't want to follow now. I never promised him anything, you know. It's time to go back to normal."

"That's all very well—except for the little detail you are conveniently forgetting—Charlie loves you."

"What would be the point in stretching this out through the summer, anyway," she mused, glossing over my objection.

"Julia, have you told him to come back? Does he—"

"I wrote to the girls. Isabel and Caroline. He hadn't written much and I wanted to know... well, maybe something bed happened to him or something. I don't know, he didn't sound right." She got a novel she had brought and handed me a folded piece of paper inside.

There were two short e-mails; Isabel's was all icy stand-offishness. It included something like:

_He is doing great; he passed his exam with flying colours and is currently seeing all his old friends. He has invited Jorge and me to Milan, we'll be there in a couple of weeks..._

And Caroline was, well. Caroline can be a bitch, I'll let you know:

_You shouldn't worry about him, darling, he's the worst correspondent ever! I will remind him to write, no problem, and I'll tell Valeria to remind him, too. He always listens to her..._

"Valeria is his ex."

"How like you to print out the most awful couple of e-mails ever, _darling_."

"And he said he'd be here in a couple of weeks, so how come he invited Isabel?"

I put my arm on her sun-warmed shoulder. "I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but... I don't think your posh friends like you much. It must be because we haven't invited them to our yacht yet. Oh, wait, we _don't_ have one. It might be that, too."

She waited patiently for me to finish rambling, then said, "That doesn't explain why Charlie isn't back."

"Well, he's been delayed, of course. He's such an obliging boy, and hasn't been with his family in months. You should just write to him and ask. And now," I got up and stretched. "aren't you starved? Let's go and eat the Jardiner's calamari."

As we strolled towards their table, though, I had to admit to myself I wasn't that happy with Charlie, either.

*******

**From: Izzy Díaz** ** To: Fina Guillán Subject: Best Cousins Summer Escapade - 2008 edition**

My dearest cousin!

I am moved by your tale of woe. July, work and Madrid! I can see how it isn't the best combination. Avoid shoes that melt on concrete and remember to carry a water bottle. And no-shine make-up.

Now, before I even begin telling you about summer plans, Reynalda and Jorge tell me to say hi. One says "Remember to eat fruit!" and the other "She's wearing the striped t-shirt! Teehee." _So_ funny.

As you well guessed, we have flown to the Campo Real house. It's cooler here and I love the pool, but we could easily end up dead of boredom. Dad has, of course, stayed in the city, since he has so much work bla bla. I told him it's not that far, he could get to work in less than an hour. But bah. Jorge and Reynalda have taken to experimenting in the kitchen. They are currently trying to make ice-cream—peach ice-cream. They've got a machine and everything.

You should come this weekend, maybe by then they will have managed to make something edible with that thing. And Reynalda says she'll make _empanadillas_ if you come.

Anyway, yes. You asked for my plans next month. I have none so far—Jorge and I have sort of invited ourselves to Charlie's, who is a bit down, but that's last week of July. August, on the other hand...

Jorge's counselor has suggested dad and Jorge should do something together—go to places and bond and whatnot. Seriously. Dad, in one of his outbursts, has planned a month-long men-only trip through Europe which is supposed to take place in August, and Jorge... I wouldn't say he's keen, but I do think he's secretly looking forward to it.

So if you've got three weeks to spend with me, I thought we could go and visit Grandpa.

I know, not the coolest idea ever. I figure you were expecting something more exciting, something tropical at least, but he called yesterday—I'm actually amazed he didn't call you too. Maybe he did and you are playing dumb. He did, didn't he? Hah.—He complained very thoroughly and insisted we should pay him a visit _soon_.

But, think about it. It's not a bad place to be, and he'll be busy with his new book (and his assistants—Colinas and her scary friend! You are _so _going to love this). We can trek in Sierra Morena, visit the city, go to Córdoba or Málaga for a couple of days. Also, he does have a pool. And we love him, remember?

Also, and I will later regret saying this... David's going to be there, visiting his father. Not that I want to see him that badly, but you know. We didn't part as well as I wished and it would be nice to get together once or twice. And you could meet him.

We could also just spend a week there and then go to, I don't know. How does Cuba sound? I have been thinking I'd like to go to Amsterdam, too. I want to be somewhere where it isn't this _hot—_I know, Granada isn't the best option to that effect. Still. Think about it, and I let you choose our other destination. Deal?

Big hugs,

Izzy.

P.S. How do things go with your boss? I don't want to ask because I don't want to sound pushy, or unsupportive, but... you know I don't approve. _And_, she sounds like a total bitch. I realize that's kind of the point, but duh. Be careful.

*******

**From: David B.** ** To: Madeleine Gallagher Subject: Re: Hi!**

Hey Maddy!

I know you said you would write, but I didn't actually expect a mail so long! I will have to reply in kind, if only to practise my English, and, of course, to make X.J. jealous. He sounds mopey on the phone, but more on that later.

Are you alright? I guess you must be mopey too. I got this mental picture of you and your cat in very grey, very dull Dublin (though I imagine you must get sunlight too) languishing away and staring out of windows.

I do hope that's not the case, though, though it would not do for you to be happy as a clam while X.J. misses you so much. [...] I can hear the brave face he's putting through the telephone line, though, not to worry. Plus, I gave him permission to take my webcam, he only has to ask my mother (and nod as she inquires and gossips and so, but those are the sacrifices he's willing to make for you, you lucky girl). [...]

So. News to keep you entertained and in a non-languishing state:

\- Julia is very fine; she called on Monday to know how was my journey and she sounded busy, tired and quite cheerful. She does not regret not taking up your offer for the Italy trip at all and says she hopes you had great fun, both of you and _on your own_. The italics are hers, only, you know, oral. She argues again that it wasn't her place to go after him, that he had invited Isabel and not her, she brought up the Valeria thing again and finally said that she is so busy and happy now with the camp kids that she hardly thinks about him at all.

She did sound breathless and cheerful-ish. She was talking to me while watching over the swimming-pool. There was lots of happy squealing in the background and she sounded quite well—until the rest of counselors rounded on her and threw her into the pool. They spared the cell, though. I think she will be alright, given enough time.

\- I am doing good, though it's a hard life, being a waiter at night and a babysitter during the day. Antonio, that is, my half-brother who is now two years old, is a little scheming thing. He has a very empirical mind and a very disarming smile, which is a deadly combination, as I've had plenty of opportunities to discover in the last three days.

When I left last Christmas, he swaggered around the house and babbled nonsense. He did call me (Ahvee, Ahveeeee, he said) and he used to wave after me from his bedroom window when I left the house, but he was a baby. Now he's like this little, happy person that understands _everything_ you say around him and repeats most of it. And he calls me Bavee, which is great progress in my opinion.

He was fun to be around before, but now it's amazing. And tiring. It's mostly tiring, to tell you the truth.

My other brother Fede (step-brother), has, at least, a wider range of hobbies than Endless Peek-a-boo and Sticking Fingers In Forbidden Places Such As Plugs. He is nine, so that's sort of expected. I help him with his homework and his soccer. We share his room, but he's very nice about that.

\- My father is doing well, too; Tere does him good. Tere is my stepmother. She is a school teacher and she is very nice, in a stern motherly way. We get on pretty well and she makes a mean _gazpacho_. Which I don't know if you ever tried. It's like a liquid salad, with lots of tomato. Very refreshing.

Which is perfect, because it's _hot_ here. The house is fine, since we keep it dark and closed during the day, and it was built with very thick walls. But I refuse to go out to the street between 2 and 6pm, for fear of melting. My dad refuses to go out at all except at night; it's rather funny. We play chess and he lends me books, but mostly he hides in his office and doesn't come out unless the kids and I make lots of noise. And at mealtimes. Well, and when Fede and I play Pro Evolution Soccer on the playstation, to keep an eye on Antonio and tell us what to do.

\- Carla did come to see me yesterday before work. I shouldn't have worried at her being angry—we are fine, and she seems happy, and slimmer. She reports that she and Lola are doing great in Lola's parent's flat (the parents have removed to their second residence in Marbella); they are all by themselves even if everyone (Lola's parents and don C de B) think they are 'good friends'. Which I know annoys her. But she says the sex is rather good, so. I think maybe they will last until September.

Apparently don C de B is not the monster they say, though Carla admits he is mostly grumpy and inconsiderate. Lola takes it all in stride, she says, but I think it's not OK with Carla. It just got worse, though, since Icy Isabel and her cousin Fina arrived yesterday before she came to visit. Carla reports that Isabel was her usual distant self, and that the cousin seems normal, and that the two of them seem to be attached at the hip. She said she took pity on the cousin at first, since she is nowhere near as pretty as Isabel, but five minutes later she switched to pitying Isabel, because Fina is so charming she effortlessly takes the spotlight from her.

But apparently she also wears very short shorts, so maybe Carla just wants to think well of her.

\- I have to make the kids eat their dinner and take a shower before heading off to work, so this will have to do for today. Say hi to Xavi Jardiner from me when he calls!

Hugs,

David.

*******

Much to David's never-ending glee, I have run out of e-mails to use. Fina was with me and Jorge was on his Father&amp;Son European Tour— they had this silly idea of sleeping at camping sites instead of doing what normal people do and getting hotel rooms, and it was easier for Jorge to simply call me from wherever they were.

This might be for the best, though, since at that time I wouldn't have shared my thoughts on David as freely as I will now, only because he is dying to read just how starry-eyed I got (fine, _get_) about him.

Which is _very_.

Also, it will help understanding why we messed things up. And it makes David look bad, or at least very oblivious.

So there we go. The day I saw David again, in fine detail but not fine prose:

August 4th

8.00 Woke up. Went out with bike.

8.45 Had a shower, which woke Fina up. Fina grumbled.

9.00 Dragged her, bedhead and all, to the kitchen, to be treated to coffee and croissants by Fátima.

9.03 Lola and Carla came in from the garage door, and Fina invited them to sit. Carla begged for caffeine, since all they manage to do in the Colina's coffeemaker is "undrinkable piss". Colinas looked appalled, at mode of expression or at sitting at the table with us princesses, and ran off to say good morning to don Carlos the Great.

9.20 Carla wasn't as scary as she appeared to be. She revealed David works 8pm-3am in a bar in plaza Santa Ana. Fina kicked my ankle but refrained from snickering. Carla issued a diplomatic invitation to join Colinas and herself that night, then looked a bit non-plussed a Fina's _Oh yes PLEASE!_

10.00-14.00 Lingered around swimming pool with Fina.

14.00 Lunch. Granddad was happy his slaves and his princesses are friendly. Then despaired of modern technology (Colinas' pissmaker), modern journalism, modern dance and modern paedagogy, and handed out advice on how to treat one's boyfriend. Colinas looked like she'd want to write it down. Fina and I noted Carla aces her poker face. The girl shows promise.

15.00-17.00 Grandpa slept, and we went down to the basement library and played Texas Hold'em with Carla while Lola pretended to work—but kept dozing off at her desk. It's funny how Carla's desk is in the nice library but Colinas has all the archive work down in the basement. I think the slaves would rather switch places, but Granddad won't let them.

17.00-20.00 Tried to read, first in the basement and then in my room. Ended up having a classic Nothing to Wear Crisis. Fina interrupted, wide-eyed with horror.

Fina: Oh f***. Did you know that Carla and Colinas... (_pause to glance towards the contents of my closet, which were all on top of my bed_) ...are a couple? Is this about David?

Isabel: A couple?

Fina (_slumps on chair after throwing down all the shoes on it_): Yes! I mean, I just caught them snogging. And remember, Carla is staying with Colinas.

Isabel: Ah. True.

Fina: Ugh. Don't you think Carla is way too cool to...

Isabel: And smart.

Fina: I mean, what's this? Beauty and the Beast II?

Isabel (_now suspecting Fina is genuinely disgruntled_): And the beauty would be Carla?

Fina: Watch it, princess.

Isabel (_sighing_ _patiently_): But you were madly in love with your boss just the other day.

Fina: What can I say? I'm not one to stay and pine hopelessly.

Isabel: Nor to stay and commit, for that matter.

Fina (_grinning_): Not, that either. So I'll be fine. But, really, Lola Colinas?

Isabel: And she seemed so sensible. Carla, I mean. (_Fina doesn't answer, because she's going through my clothes._) I don't know what to wear.

Fina: I vote for the vintage dress.

Isabel: Which one?

Fina: The green one. Beauty and the beast aren't even going to change clothes, so keep it casual.

Isabel: You sure you are alright?

Fina: Will be as soon as I get tipsy. So hurry up. And lend me your pretty earrings. (_Putting them on_) Ah, much better. (_Kisses cheek in random outburst and leaves._)

(_Isabel, wearing the green dress, glares at her ten pairs of shoes and tells herself she is being irrational_.)

20.30 Plaza Santa Ana is very nice. That's good, because the bar is so small, most of the tables are outside. That night we sat next to the door, and I could watch him come and go and win foreigners over with an easy smile. Carla hailed him down and ordered the selection of cold meats and garlicky shrimps, plus drinks. David laughed at her diet, and Colinas complained to me but I was too busy staring at him to be annoyed. He didn't look twice at me until he got introduced to Fina, and then he walked around the table for the greetings. He had to steady me with one hand on my waist when I rose to kiss cheeks. Of course, he smelled wonderful. I both melted and wished he was already gone so that I could look at him and feel thirteen in peace.

When he came back with our order, I had my voice back, enough to compliment his tan.

Isabel: You are so tan!

David: I guess I now do look like a gypsy.

Carla: Maybe moroccan.

Colinas: Not moroccan at all!

Carla: A bit, yes.

Colinas: He's too handsome to look moroccan.

(_Everyone flinches a bit._)

David: Oh, you should see Julia. She's out in the sun all day now, with the kids, and she was already tan in July despite all the sunblock...

Isabel (_in a futile attempt to control the conversation_): Doesn't she burn, being blondish?

David (_dismissively_): She tans easily anyway.

Fina: Isabel says she's very pretty. Wait, we didn't order the Russian salad. Or the Spanish omelette.

David: They come with the drinks. Don't let Carla near them, though.

Carla pouted. Colinas did in fact push the dishes towards us and out of her reach. As I confirmed my suspicions about the omelet, Fina confirmed hers about them being girlfriends. Yes, the omelette tasted just like the one he made at Louisa's (impossibly good and knee-melting). Yes, they were in a relationship, Carla said, and don Carlos didn't know. Colinas seemed horrified at having been found out, and was silenced for a long while. Which made conversation easier. Fina's strange mood helped, too—she was bouncy and witty, which with Fina isn't always good.

21.20 David stopped by again, apologizing for not paying us enough attention. It truly was a busy night. He paid for a second round of drinks, brought chips, calamari and more omelette, and was very very nice with everyone, particularly Fina. I liked that, but couldn't string two words together. I didn't think I should speak, either; I was overwhelmed just by sitting there and marvelling at everything he did and said.

Until Fina acted on her fizzy mood, that is. It went like this:

David: So, you two are cousins?

Fina: Oh yes, best cousins. It's like best friends, but with the added bonus of being family.

Carla (_who was keeping tabs both on Colina's ramblings and our side of the conversation_): You do look alike.

Fina: Oh, but Izzy's prettier, isn't she?

David: I wouldn't say so. Besides, she is snottier (_smiles teasingly at Isabel_).

Isabel (_rendered speechless by what sounded like affectionate banter_): ...

Fina (_to the rescue_): But prettier. So what do you do when you are not waiting on people?

David: I chat girls up.

(_Carla snorts in the background_)

Fina: Really.

Isabel: He wants to teach.

Fina: Uh?

Isabel (_clears throat_): He wants to teach.

David: Ah! Yes. I finished Spanish and Catalan and I'm going to do a master on paedagogy next year.

Fina: You should totally meet our granddad then. But when you do, don't mention paedagogy. Nor homosexuality. We'll introduce you, if you promise. When are you free?

Isabel: ...

David: The day after tomorrow. Well, the night.

Fina: Great, then, you'll come to dinner. Grandpa needs fresh victims.

(_Isabel really wants to be somewhere else._)

Fina: You two will be there, right? Carla can kick our ass at poker later, or we can drive back here and go somewhere nice. That is, if you don't fall in love with the library and chain yourself to a shelf...

Colinas: I don't think don Carlos would approve...

Fina: He'd understand. He hardly ever leaves the room himself.

Colinas: I meant, us staying for di--

Carla (_patting Colina's knee to shut her up_): Oh, you'll love the books, David.

David: If you don't think it would be--

Fina: Okay, may Izzy pick you up at, say, seven?

David (_startled_): O-kay...

(_Isabel thinks she might die_.)

Carla: He even has a signed poem from Lorca. From _Lorca_. Dedicated to the late _señor_ de Burgos.

Colinas: And signed first editions of--

Fina: We'll have fun. Now run off to serve _sangría_ and chat girls up.

David: Yeah. Here's my number. (_Writes it in his his notepad and hands it to Fina with a nice boy's best try at a roguish smile._)

(_Fina grins and passes it to Isabel without looking at it or even feigning interest, for God's sake._)

(_David, oblivious as ever, saunters off.)_

_(_ _Isabel is dead.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my betas, who did their best (poor things): hl (hele), Elizabeth and VickyVicarious. You are the greatest betas ever, sweets!


	10. Chapter 10

_Mas ¿cómo me darás el bien que espero,  
si en darme males tan escaso vives  
que apenas tengo cuantos males quiero?_

'But how are you to give me any pleasure,  
if you are so scarce in giving me pain  
that I hardly get the pain I want?'

Lope de Vega, _Dulce desdén, si el daño que me haces..._

Lola called me on the morning of the day I had to dine at don Carlos' house. She said, "I hope you don't feel you have to dress up very much. I am sure he's not expecting you to wear a tie or anything. Maybe a juvenile tie. He understands that we are young..."  
   
"I'm glad to hear that."  
   
"...but don't look too casual, will you? Please don't wear jeans. Or Hawaiian shirts."  
   
"I swear to you, I've never even owned a Hawaiian shirt."   
   
"Have you got a dress-up jacket?"  
   
"Not here, no."  
   
"Oh God! Carla, he says he doesn't have a proper jacket!"  
   
I could hear Carla's voice, and then Lola said, "Carla says you will come up with something. But remember to wear shoes."  
   
I hadn't packed any pair of dress-up shoes, either, it being August and all. Still, I managed to look both presentable and casual by the time Isabel picked me up. She eyed me as I bounced into her impossibly clean Mini, and since she didn't say a word—I mean she didn't say I looked like a gypsy or anything—I imagined it would do.   
   
"I like your car," I said, in a well-meant attempt to play nice and make conversation. The car was red and had a white roof, comfortable seats in black leather and all the little things you could wish for, really, if you were a rich girl with a cool car, like bluetooth, a GPS, a wooden wheel and a great sound system. There wasn't a single stuffed animal, though. Of course.

I wanted that car, damnit.  
   
"It was a present for my twentieth birthday," she said, not stopping to let a family cross the street.    
   
"You don't look like a red car kind of girl." I had known she would be an inconsiderate driver from the start, though.   
   
She shrugged one shoulder. "Jorge picked the model and all."  
   
"Ah."  
   
"He's seventeen. I'm just grateful the side mirrors aren't checkered," she said, pushing the lights button and making a brief stop. Carla and Fina were climbing into the car before I had time to wonder at them being there, and it was quickly explained to me that Carla had been in the public library and Fina just _had_ to go shopping. She showed us her acquisitions: a miniskirt, expensive flip-flops, and a set of matching lace panties and bra.   
   
I liked Fina very much, of course. What is not to like about a girl that shows people her underthings, even if she isn't wearing them at the moment? Especially if she has bulging eyes, spiky blond hair, long legs, and freckles and tiny dark moles everywhere you can see. She looked a bit like a dalmatian, only chattier.  
   
She told me all about the _hacienda_ along the way, how it was just outside a village nearby and it didn't come with much land because it had been bought only for the house, with the money the de Burgos family had made after the Civil War. Which meant, of course, that they had been in the winners' side. The side of the forty-year-long dictatorship, yes. Yay. I liked the de Burgos family already.  
   
"Oh yes, even now my mum has trouble grasping the finer concepts of democracy, like the fact people can vote differently from her. And the point of paying _all_ of her taxes, that's difficult too. Izzy, I think your dad is the only one who-"  
   
"Let's not talk about politics," Isabel said, eyes on the road ahead of her.  
   
"Let's talk about my panties," amended Fina, not skipping a beat. "Carla, what do you think: sexy or not?"   
   
"You should probably ask David," Carla said. "He likes lace."  
   
"Oh, does he?"  
   
"I do," I quipped. "As long as you don't make me wear it."  
   
"Now _that_ is something I'd like to see."   
   
"Animal print would suit him better."  
   
"Oh, I love animal print!"  
   
"Sexy."  
   
"Grawrrr."   
   
"You can see the house now," said Isabel, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. Maybe she didn't like people laughing their heads off in her car. Or maybe it was the animal print—really a very trying choice to discerning tastes.  
   
The _hacienda_ was a slate-roofed house that spread behind a stone wall and a sad-looking rose garden. Its name, written by the entrance gate, was _Rosales_.

A very excited Lola in a sober dress much like Isabel's jumped on us as soon as Isabel parked the car. She was a bit like an overexcited puppy—Lola, of course, not Isabel. Apparently Carla found the doggy act endearing, because she palmed her ass and made her squeal. They got distracted and I kept my eyes away. 

I was shown inside by Fina and Isabel; Fina spoke and Isabel trailed behind us. The house was dark and cool, with ancient, ugly furniture. We headed to the library, which was lined to the ceiling with bookshelves. That was sort of expected. There was a massive desk, and a garden folding table set next to it, both surrounded and toppedby books, stacks of  paper and carton boxes (with more books inside). There was also a fireplace, which, of course, was unlit, and a single armchair next to it, in which don Carlos sat and scowled at me. He turned out to be a small, fragile old man with bushy eyebrows, aristocratic hands and a pipe. The pipe was lit.

"Isabel is coming," was the first thing Fina said. I had been expecting an introduction, I mean, it would have been the thing to do, right? So I tried to look unfazed in the few seconds it took for Isabel to reach us and don Carlos to hide his pipe under a newspaper.

Isabel stopped by my side and don Carlos boomed suddenly, "Is nobody going to introduce him?"

I flinched, Fina smiled and Isabel said, "Granddad, this is David. He's from Barcelona."

"Hello, sir. How do you do?" I was made to approach the man enough to shake hands with him by Isabel's gentle push on the small of my back. She perched herself on his armrest, plucked the pipe from under the newspaper and emptied it in a coffee cup.

He did as if he hadn't noticed a thing, squinting at me and loudly asking, "What was your name again?"

"David Benet."

Isabel gave him his hearing-aid and he grudgingly put him on, then put his hand on hers when she kissed his temple. "Ah. Catalan. Good, hard-working people, _most_ of you."

Carla glided in, bright-eyed and followed by Lola. "All of them except I," she said to him. He did not deign to answer, and she didn't seem to expect it of him, either. "Look, David, this sorry excuse for a table is my working station. My boss here has promised a new one, but at this rate it will collapse and I'll have to start stacking files on the floor."  Don Carlos ignored the jab and instead said something to Fina, who had slunk towards him and away from Lola.

"He has seven hundred books in Rosales, and the most precious of them are kept in this room. His father started the collection, since he was friends with the erroneously called Generation of '27..."

"She's trying to sort them into some semblance of order," Carla said.

"...and though most of the collection was donated to the Universidad Complutense, and can be accessed with a special authorization, don Carlos decided to keep the 19th century first and second editions and merge them with his own expanding collection of classics..."

"My job is to find all the editions of... hm." Carla cut again, only managing to partially sidetrack Lola.

"So you can surely understand the honour of working here, and of being invited..."

"Lola," Isabel said, getting up, "go and check if the dinner is ready, please?"

Lola was off.

Isabel smiled at Carla (not at me) and pulled at my cuff so discreetly I wondered if I had imagined it. "Look, David," she said, walking towards the imposing desk. "Carla thought this might interest you."

I followed, stealing a glance towards don Carlos, who was telling Fina he didn't really like fresh water fish because the taste was so _fishy_. He didn't seem to care if we got near his desk. I felt like I shouldn't turn my back on him, which was, of course, ridiculous. Carla grinned at me and said, "You'll love it. Look."

The book she retrieved from under a pile of Hispanic Review issues was, indeed, awesome. It was the first Spanish translation of the _Tirant_, published in 1511 in Valladolid. Seriously. It lacked the cover, though, which I had seen somewhere (and included a huge engraving of a knight on his horse). "Wow. _Wow_. For real, where did you get _this_?"

"Lola found it somewhere in the basement. I'm going to write a paper on it," Isabel said. Later, when I had leafed through it to my heart's content and we were sitting at the dining table, she added, "Seeing how excited you got, one would think you _should_ try academic research."

"Right, no, that won't happen. The books are great, but that's it."

Somehow, I had managed not to sit next to don Carlos, but he still heard me. Damn the hearing aids.

"What is it you will do, then, young man?"

"He wants to be a high school teacher," Lola said. Opposite me, Carla closed her eyes.

"I see. How old are you, boy?"

"Old enough?" It had sounded like he thought I did not know what I was saying, so I just... From the corner of my eye, I saw Fina turning her head to shot an amused look past me, in Isabel's direction.

"How old is _that_? Old enough, he says. Colinas, how old is he?"

"Twenty-two," I said.

Don Carlos took his time to sip a spoonful of vichyssoise. Everyone started to eat, too, and then he said, "And where did you go to school?"

"I graduated from the Autònoma," I said.

"No, I mean your high school."

"Oh. A public one. You wouldn't—"

"Did he just say he studied in a public high school?" 

"I did, too," Carla said.

"You grew up in the _country_. That doesn't count. What is your parents' job, Benet?"

"It wasn't a matter of money. My father believes in the public educational system."

"Ah. Well. Then it is natural his son would be a dreamer too. Such a waste of talent."

I wondered how did he know if I had any talent to start with, but I was a bit too incensed to ask. Instead, I said, "Why, thank you."

"Sarcasm is not becoming past sixteen, boy. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"One sister. She studied History of Art."

"There, another dreamer. What is she doing now, dare I ask?"

Isabel, of all people, stepped in, calmly refilling my glass of water. "She wants to be a touristic guide, is that right? Or a museum guide. I think she said so once. It's such an interesting job. Grandpa, did I tell you I know some of the foil fencers in the Olympic games?" 

Thus steered away, he started a grumpy but safe monologue ("'When my brother and I fenced...") that ran for the ten minutes it took me to cool down. Then the upcoming Olympics were discussed ("These strange modern sports..."), and the second course was eaten (''Beijing. Really. One has to wonder what they were thinking..."), and finally there was cream-topped flan—Fina and I shared Carla's. So dinner consisted mostly of listening to the great man talk, with occasional remarks from Colinas (to assent) and from his granddaughters (to keep him from offending topics). There were also a number of dark glances from under the bushy eyebrows, but apparently that was his way to look at everyone, even Fina and Isabel. I noticed that no-one ever contradicted him, and was astounded when Carla didn't even bat her eyelashes when he made a couple of rude remarks about her diet.

"It's rather sweet of him, in fact," she whispered to me a while later, while we inspected the living-room and don Carlos watched the news further away. The TV was so loud I could hardly hear her, the hearing-aid having been discarded for some unknown reason. "He is very much against me losing weight."

"Why does he even have an opinion on that?"

"Darling, the man has an opinion on _everything_." Carla laughed, corralling me towards the corner of the room. There was a guitar case propped against the wall, and also a couple of bookshelves dedicated to guitar scores near the instrument itself. I leafed through some of them, wondering at their number. Some had annotations in the margins, and most of them had _J. D. de B._ written in a small, neat hand in the inside of the cover.

"Those are my youngest grandson's," don Carlos boomed from his armchair, which was identical to the one in the library. "He plays very well. Do you play, boy? I think a man should know how to play, if only to woo a girl. Or another man. Who knows, these days. Maybe it doesn't even work that way anymore, and one has to clown about and wear earrings in the navel instead. Well, do you?"

"Play? Yes. A bit."

"Well, play something for us. My grandson Jorge plays very well," he said again, "but he hasn't visited for a while." Before I could open my mouth, he had switched off the TV and everyone was looking expectantly at me.

"Here, I think you can do this one," Carla said, laying a score in front of me while I awkwardly tuned the guitar. It was much finer than mine, and probably three times as expensive. Fortunately Carla had chosen just right; the man _had_ to like Paco Ibáñez, and I could play some of the songs. I chose _Ríase la gente_, which has baroque lyrics about how happy one can be without great aspirations, and smirked at Isabel. I regretted it immediately, seeing how seriously she looked at me from her place in the sofa.

The girls clapped a bit as I finished, and don Carlos asked if I could play Jacques Brel. I said I could play Carla Bruni.

"Yay! I'm _so_ in love with Carla Bruni!" Fina said, bouncing a bit. "Granddad, remember I sent the CD?"

"Of course I remember, I am not senile yet. You may play," he said, waving me off without taking offense at my cheekiness. Drat.

"Play _Le plus beau du quartier_," Carla said, biting off an evident smile. It's a song I always dedicate to Dídac—it's about a guy that explains in detail how he's the hottest thing in his neighbourhood and how everyone is attracted to him.

Unfortunately, before I had the chance to start making the cad in front of such an audience, the telephone rang.

Carla was the first to find the receiver (under a magazine). She checked the ID and grimaced.

She tossed the phone to Fina, who looked at it briefly. She passed it on to Isabel. "It's Aunt Catalina," she said.

"Your daughter," Isabel said, handing it to don Carlos.

"Lola," he barked.

Lola picked up. "_¿Dígame? ¡Señora Catalina, qué sorpresa! Don Carlos no está..._" She walked out of the room, apparently happy to take the hot potato.

"Who was that?" I whispered to Carla when she sat down again.

"Catalina de Burgos," she said. "The eldest daughter of don Carlos."

"And they aren't talking?"

"She intimidates him," she told me, with an amused smile.

***

 

Granddad is great. Just for the record. _Tía_ Catalina is a remarkable woman, too, but also one you don't want to have much to do with—unless you are Colinas.

We waited a bit for her, even knowing she wasn't coming back any time soon. Granddad had started annoying Carla to pass the time. I wanted to watch David play Carla Bruni very much, though. So I elbowed Fina and she asked him nicely.

David (_idly playing a chord_): Hm... I don't think I can play under Izzy's scrutiny. What, are you trying to intimidate me?

Isabel (_pleased at the teasing_): I doubt I could.

David: You doubt well. But you can keep trying.

Fina: So, Izzy here doesn't intimidate you?

David (_melodramatically_): My courage rises with every attempt.

(_Isabel can't open her mouth for fear of giggling._)

Fina: There's no attempt. Her awesomeness is involuntary.

David: You have to defend her, she's your cousin.

Fina: Best cousin. Though it is true she should _talk_ a bit more.

(_Isabel is jolted by Fina's elbow on her ribs. She's_ so good _at hints._)

David: Definitely. Should I tell you what she did the first time I met her?

Fina: Oh, do.

David: Her friends met my friends in a pub, but she barely spoke to anyone but Caroline—do you know Caroline?

Fina: Not the best conversationalist.

David: No. And she refused to join a game of foozball at least three times.

Isabel (_mortified_): And several introductions.

David (_grinning at her and nearly causing her heart to stop_): And several introductions, yes.

That was the exact moment my granddad decided to save me from death by spontaneous combustion. He declared he was going to sleep and that everyone who lived elsewhere should leave the premises. Carla asked if someone could give a ride to David—as their car's back seat-belts were somehow not working.

I was thankful, even if I didn't know if she was telling the truth or just messing with us. But I was sure Fina's excuse would have been much, much worse.

So I drove him home.

Isabel (_after safely maneuvering back to the road despite sweaty hands_): Did you like the library then?

David: Very much. Don Carlos is really something.

Isabel: Yes. I think he liked you.

David: Hah. I don't think so.

Isabel: He likes bickering.

David (_smiling wryly at her—while sitting next to her inside the dark car_): Oh, well. Then maybe he does.

Isabel (_trying to steer her train of thought back to driving_): About... about what you said before. I'm just not good at making friends. I can't just fake interest in people I don't care about.

David: Having to fake it is a bad start.

Isabel: Oh. But there aren't that many interesting people.

David (_laughing and turning his head to look through his window_): You know, I could play the guitar decently, if I practiced. But I can't be bothered. And neither can you, don't deny it. And don't blame your talent—blame your lack of interest.

Isabel: Are you telling me I should _practice_?

David: Hello, my name is Queen of Frozen Glares, how are you? (_turns his head to watch her giggle, then resumes normal speech_) Yes, I am suggesting you do that. I'm that presumptuous.

Isabel (_wants to say too many things, and settles for_): I'll try. What do I do if someone is really not interesting?

David: For God's sake, don't practice with Lola.

(_They both laugh, and Isabel is too happy to say much for a while. Besides, she should try not to crash the car._)

Isabel: Um, David?

David: Why do you keep calling me Daveeth?

Isabel (_smiling_): Because I'm from Madreeth? Anyhow, you can't complain. You keep calling me Isabelle. Or Izzy. No-one but my family actually calls me Izzy since—

David: Oh, turn left now. Here it is. Thank you for the ride.

Isabel (_wishing she had taken a discreet detour at some point_): Is that your place?

David: Yeah.

Isabel (_watching him get out and getting bluer by the second_): It's pretty.

David: See you around, I guess?

Isabel (_perking up_): Yes?

David (_waving as he walks backwards to the door_): Good night! Drive safe.

(_Isabel drives safe and is in love._)

***

 

Every morning, I was woken by my baby brother jumping on my bed—at an ungodly hour, of course. I normally took both Antonio and Fede to the public swimming pool. But some days, because of the Olympic Games, we stayed at home and watched the guys in parallel bars or the rowing finals—sports we wouldn't be interested in until the next games, at least.

The swimming pool was nice, even if apparently everyone over twelve and under sixty showed up in the afternoon. It was rather peaceful, but I couldn't swim my usual laps or doze in the shadow because Antonio had an obsession with the deep end of the big pool. He would try to jump in head first anytime he thought I wasn't paying attention. Fede found this infinitely amusing, but I was too sleepy to laugh.

So one morning, a couple of days after visiting Rosales, I was lying on my stomach and watching Fede teach Antonio how to open his eyes underwater without breathing in (which seemed to be the difficult part), when a lone girl came into my line of vision. I propped myself on my elbows and slid my sunglasses on—she was under thirty and I was way too single, but even if there had been twenty other semi-nude girls around, I would have noticed her.

She was wearing cute sixties' sunglasses and a yellow cotton dress, and she was gorgeous. Not a glossy magazine sort of gorgeous, just, I don't know. Artlessly, proportionately beautiful—and that's really my best effort at describing her. And so I stared as she strode across the lawn, dropped her bag and unexpectedly shrugged off her dress, thus becoming a gorgeous girl in a bikini.

"She's too pretty by half, the bitch," an affectionate voice said next to me. It was Fina, setting her towel by my things. "A bit blind, though. IZZY!"

Oh, yes. That's just my luck. Isabel, who in all rights should have been wearing neon lights warning she was _not_ ogling material, looked back at us, cocked her head and started gathering her things again. I burrowed my head in my towel (oh, the disappointment), thought of a couple of blasphemies, and realized I had yet to acknowledge Fina. I looked up and smiled at her.

"Hey. What happened to your swimming pool?"

"Felt bad for the slave girls. We're trying not to rub it in. Plus, there's a bar here. For some reason nobody can understand, Granddad has forbidden soft drinks at his place. Especially Coke. And I'm such a Pepsi addict, you know? Princess, I'm off to the water," she said to her cousin, who was settling by her side.

"Already?" Princess Isabel called after her, dropping her sunglasses on her towel. But Fina, already halfway to the showers due to her long calf-like legs, merely turned to blow us a kiss. Isabel stole over her place and sat back, resting on her elbows (one of which brushed my ankle). I didn't turn to look at all—because I was watching the kids as Fede helped Antonio out of the water. Yeah.

"Hi," she ventured, and I thought _I_ should have greeted her by then, and that maybe she hadn't wanted to sit by us and Fina had forced her hand.

So I glanced at her over my shoulder and had to grin at her obvious uneasiness. "Hey, sorry. I'm keeping an eye on the children."

"Oh. Of course. Which ones are yours?"

"Er... The ones running towards us, screaming _pipipipipipi._"

Antonio was, at least, while Fede lagged behind and eyed Isabel cautiously. To Antonio's delight, I lugged him up like a potato sack and trotted off to the toilets. By the urgency of his warning, I gathered that he _would_ pee right there if we didn't hurry.

By the time we got back, Fede was worshipping Isabel up close, sitting next to her and doing what she said (which was smearing sunscreen all over himself). I sat cross-legged next to them and put the little beach hat on Antonio. He told me, very observantly, that there was a red towel under us, and that he had a foot. He then wiggled his toes.

"Water can't get into your nose," Isabel was saying. I knew they were speaking about his inability to head-dive, since she wasn't saying anything he hadn't been told by at least a dozen grown-ups already. Since Fede didn't look at all convinced, she added, "Water will do this." She brought a palm to his face and boldly dragged it down to the chin. "Not this." She the dragged the hand up again, which of course flattened his nose upwards and made him yelp and squirm away, laughing.

"Let's go and try," I told him. He shook his head and crawled next to her again. Isabel was watching Antonio calmly try to stick his head through my t-shirt sleeve with a fascinated—and dubious—expression. I realised she did not like babies all that much, probably because they only spoke nonsense and cried when she frowned at them. At Fede's approach, though, she tilted her head back to gaze critically at him.

"I'll show you how," she said.

"I can't," Fede argued, cheeky kid that he is. "I just put sunscreen on."

She pushed his shoulder, effortlessly toppling him over. "Chicken!"

"Wanna see my collection of Gormiti?" he asked, after rolling out of her reach. Isabel agreed, although I was sure she had no idea what those were.

"Will you two keep an eye on the little monster while I swim for a while?" I said, as the Gormiti were produced and shown with pride. Isabel looked dubiously at Antonio (who peeked at us from the sleeve gap). I felt compelled to add, "Don't worry. He will enjoy a pretty girl bullying him, too."

Any other girl I knew would have taken this as a cue to baby-talk to him and go, "Will you, sweetie?" and blow raspberries on his belly. But Isabel didn't, probably because she didn't know how to baby-talk at all.  So she merely blushed and told me, with disarming honesty, "I'm not that good with small kids. Send Fina over?"

Which I did. Still, the one who later caught him hardly two feet from the edge of the forbidden pool was Isabel. She glared at him, holding him at arms length, as he kicked and screamed bloody murder. Fina laughed her head off. Then a truce was agreed on, if his going out of his way to annoy her can be called a truce. He kept stealing her sunglasses, making her chase him away from the pool and trying to blow raspberries on _her_ (licking her, more like), all of which, to her credit, she took in stride.

I really wasn't expecting her to drop by another day, but she did.

***

 

There was a sort of unspoken routine—even if it didn't last more than a couple of weeks. I would have breakfast with Carla and Fina, although Fina sometimes got home halfway through it, shoes in her hand, and just winked at us on her way to bed. Then, I would drive to the pool around eleven, and if the boys were there, Fede would gallantly set my towel for me. David tended to greet me with something along the lines of "What, here again?" while I fended off Antonio, who once bit my cheek as a greeting.

I loved that kid. Seriously. Fede too, although neither his brother or I managed to teach him to head-dive. But we once watched a fencing match in the bar, and I explained some rules to him as we nibbled our Calippos.

And mostly I was head over heels in love with David. It didn't bother me that we didn't speak much, or that we were always rather awkward around each other. I was totally stupefied by his mere presence. Fina laughed at me. She baited me, cheerfully deploring that he wasn't that much taller than me, and that he had no six-pack to speak of, and that his teeth were a bit crooked. I didn't care—she had no idea. To me, he was adorable, and perfect, all slim and agile, and I _loved_ watching him swim.

So that's how I didn't notice a thing. Had I realized he was indifferent to me, I would _never_ have told him how I felt.

Looking back, I'm glad I was so blind.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you muchly to my betas, hl (hele) and Elizabeth. Love them and love you!


End file.
